A  FOOL 
-THERE 

WAS 


PORTER 


L. 


A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 


-BEAUTIFUL,  GLORIOUSLY  BEAUTIFUL  IN  HER  STRANGE, 
WEIRD,  DARK   BEAUTY."— Page  799 


A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

BY 

PORTER  EMERSON  BROWNE 


'A  Fool  there  was  and  he  made  his  prayer — 

(Even  as  you  and  I.) 
7o  a  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair — 

(  We  called  her  the  woman  who  did  not  care) 
But  the  fool  he  called  her  his  lady  fair — 

(Even  as  you  and  U" 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

EDMUND    MAGRATH 

AND 

W.  W.  FAWCETT 


NEW   YORK 

GROSSET   &    DUNLAP 
PUBLISHERS 

UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  LOS  ANGELES 


Copyright  1909,  by 
THE  H.  K.  FLY  COMPANY. 


TO 

ROBERT  MILLIARD. 


2125641 


CONTENTS 


Chapter.  Page. 

I.     Of  Certain  People 1 1 

II.     Of  Certain  Other  People 19 

III.  Two  Boys  and  a  Girl 28 

IV.  The  Child  and  the  Stranger 36 

V.     As  Time  Passes 42 

VI.     An  Accident 48 

VII.     An  Incident 57 

VIII.     Of  Certain  Goings 64 

IX.     Of  Certain  Other  Goings 70 

X.     Two  Boys  and  a  Doctor 74 

XI.     A  Proposal 78 

XII.     A  Foreign  Mission 85 

XIII.  The  Going 97 

XIV.  Parmalee — and  The  Woman no 

XV.     A  Warning  116 

XVI.     The  Beginning 125 

XVII.     In  The  Night .....138 

XVIII.     White  Roses  144 

7 


8 


CONTENTS 


XIX.     Shadows 151 

XX.     A  Fairy  Story 161 

XXI.     A  Letter 169 

XXII.     Again  The  Fairy  Story 175 

XXIII.  Aid   180 

XXIV.  The  Rescue 186 

XXV.     The  Return  191 

XXVI.     The  Red  Rose 199 

XXVII.     The  Red  Road 208 

XXVIII.     The  Battle 217 

XXIX.     Defeat 226 

XXX.     And  Its  Consequences 235 

XXXI.     That  Which  Men  Said 241 

XXXII.     In  the  Garden 246 

XXXIII.  Temptation   253 

XXXIV.  The  Shroud  of  a  Soul 263 

XXXV.     The  Thing  that  was  a  Man 272 

XXXVI.     Again  the  Battle 281 

XXXVII.    The  Pity  of  It  All 292 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 

"Beautiful,  gloriously  beautiful  in  her  strange, 
weird  dark  beauty"  frontispiece 

""Bye   little   sweetheart"    107 

"I  do  forgive — forgive  and  understand" 289 

"Can't  you  find  in  that  dead  thing  you  call  a 
heart  just  one  shred  of  pity?" 298 


A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

CHAPTER  ONE. 

OF   CERTAIN    PEOPLE. 

To  begin  a  story  of  this  kind  at  the  begin- 
ning is  hard;  for  when  the  beginning  may  have 
been,  no  man  knows.  Perhaps  it  was  a  hundred 
years  ago — perhaps  a  thousand — perhaps  ten 
thousand ;  and  it  may  well  be,  yet  longer  ago,  even, 
than  that.  Yet  it  can  be  told  that  John  Schuyler 
came  from  a  long  line  of  clean-bodied,  clean- 
souled,  clear-eyed,  clear-headed  ancestors;  and 
from  these  he  had  inherited  cleanness  of  body  and 
of  soul,  clearness  of  eye  and  of  head.  They  had 
given  him  all  that  lay  in  their  power  to  give,  had 
these  honest,  impassive  Dutchmen  and — women 
— these  broad-shouldered,  narrow-hipped  English; 
they  had  amalgamated  for  him  their  virtues,  and 
they  had  eradicated  for  him  their  vices;  they  had 
cultivated  for  him  those  things  of  theirs  that  it 
ii 


12  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

were  well  to  cultivate;  and  they  had  plucked  ruth- 
lessly from  the  gardens  of  heredity  the  weeds  and 
tares  that  might  have  grown  to  check  his  growth. 
And,  doing  this,  they  had  died,  one  after  another, 
knowing  not  what  they  had  done — knowing  not 
why  they  had  done  it — knowing  not  what  the  re- 
sult would  be — doing  that  which  they  did  because 
it  was  in  them  to  do  it;  and  for  no  other  reason 
save  that.  For  so  it  is  of  this  world. 

First,  then,  it  is  for  you  to  know  these  things 
that  I  have  told.  Secondly,  it  is  for  you  to  real- 
ize that  there  are  things  in  this  world  of  which 
we  know  but  little;  that  there  are  other  things  of 
which  we  may  sometime  learn;  that  there  are  in- 
finitely more  things  that  not  even  the  wisest  of 
us  may  ever  begin  to  understand.  God  chooses  to 
tell  us  nothing  of  that  which  comes  after;  and  of 
that  which  comes  therein  He  lets  us  laarn  just 
enough  that  we  may  know  how  much  more  there 
is. 

And  knowing  and  realizing  these  things,  we 
may  but  go  back  as  far  toward  the  beginning  as 
it  is  in  our  power  to  see. 

Before    the    restless,    never-ebbing    of   the 


OF  CERTAIN   PEOPLE  13 

tides  of  business  had  overwhelmed  it  with  a  seeth- 
ing flood  of  watered  stocks  and  liquid  dollars, 
there  stood  on  a  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  and  one 
of  its  lower  tributaries,  a  stern,  heavy-portalled 
mansion  of  brownstone.  It  was  a  house  not  for- 
bidding, but  dignified.  Its  broad,  plate-glass  win- 
dows gazed  out  in  silent,  impassive  tolerance 
upon  the  streams  of  social  life  that  passed  it  of 
pleasant  afternoons  in  Spring  and  Fall — on  sleet- 
swept  nights  of  winter  when  'bus  and  brougham 
brought  from  theatre  and  opera  their  little  groups 
and  pairs  of  fur-clad  women  and  high-hatted  men. 
It  was  a  big  house — big  ir.  size — big  in  atmos- 
phere— big  in  manner. 

At  its  left  there  was  another  big  house, 
much  like  the  one  that  I  have  already  described. 
It  was  possibly  a  bit  more  homelike — a  bit  less 
dignified;  for,  possibly,  its  windows  were  a  trifle 
more  narrow,  and  its  portal  a  little  less  imposing. 
And  across  from  that  there  lay  a  smaller  house — 
a  house  of  brick;  and  this  was  much  more  inviting 
than  either  of  the  others;  for  one  might  step  from 
the  very  sidewalk  within  the  broad  hall,  hung 
with  two  very,  very  old  portraits  and  lighted 
warmly  with  shades  of  dull  yellow,  and  of  pink. 


14  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

In  the  first  of  the  big  houses  there  lived  a 
boy;  and  in  the  second  there  lived  another  boy; 
and  across,  in  the  little  house  of  brick,  there  lived 
a  girl.  Of  course,  in  these  houses  there  dwelt,  as 
well,  other  people. 

Of  these  was  John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler, 
who,  with  his  wife  Gretchen,  lived  in  the  big  house 
on  the  corner,  was  a  man  silent,  serious.  He  lived 
intent,  honest,  upright.  He  seldom  laughed; 
though  when  he  did,  there  came  at  the  corners  of 
mouth  and  eye,  tiny,  tell-tale  lines  which  showed 
that  beneath  seriousness  and  silence,  lay  a  fund  of 
humor  unharmed  by  continual  drain.  He  was  a, 
tall  man,  broad-shouldered,  straight-backed.  And 
to  that  which  had  been  left  him,  he  added,  in 
health,  in  mind,  and  in  money,  and  he  added  wise- 
ly and  well,  and  never  at  unjust  expense  to  any- 
one. 

His  wife  was  much  as  he  in  trait  and  habit. 
She,  too,  was  silent,  serious,  intent.  Of  her  time,, 
of  her  effort,  of  herself,  she  gave  freely  wherein 
it  were  well  to  give.  In  her  youth,  she  had  been 
a  beautiful  girl;  as  a  woman,  she  was  still  beautiful; 
and  her  husband  and  her  son  were  very  proud 


OF  CERTAIN   PEOPLE  15 

of  her,  though  the  one  was  fifty-five,  and  the  other 
but  twelve. 

In  the  big  house  next  door,  there  lived 
Thomas  Cathcart  Blake.  He,  too,  had  a  wife,  and 
one  child — a  boy.  And  of  John  Stuyvesant  Schuy- 
ler  he  was  very  fond — even  as  Mrs.  Thomas  Cath- 
cart IBlake  was  fond  of  Mrs.  John  Stuyvesant 
Schuyler;  and  even  as  Tom  Blake,  the  son  of  the 
one,  was  fond  of  Jack  Schuyler,  the  son  of  the 
other.  Blake,  the  elder,  was  a  man  rotund  of 
figure,  ruddy  of  complexion,  great  of  heart.  He 
laughed  much;  for  he  enjoyed  much.  He  gave 
away  much  more  than  he  could  make;  and  he 
laughed  about  it.  His  wife  laughed  with  him.  And 
really  it  made  no  difference;  for  they  had  more 
for  themselves  than  they  could  ever  use.  Of 
course,  you  know,  it  is  true  that  many  people  have 
more  than  they  can  ever  use;  but  few  ever  think 
so. 

In  the  little,  warm  house  of  red  brick,  across 
the  street,  lived  Kathryn  Blair,  and  with  her  an- 
other Kathryn  Blair,  who  was  as  much  like  the 
other  as  it  is  possible  for  six  to  be  like  thirty. 
They  both  had  wide,  violet  eyes  and  sensitive,  red 
lips,  and  very  white  teeth  and  lithe,  slender  bodies. 


16  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

And  they  were  both  loved  very  much  by  every- 
one; and  everyone  said  what  a  shame  it  was  that 
he  or  she  hadn't  put  his  or  her  foot  down  hard 
and  made  Jimmy  Blair  stay  at  home  instead  of 
letting  him  go  down  into  that  unpronounceable 
Central  American  place  and  get  killed  in  an  opera 
bouffe  revolution  with  which  he  had  absolutely 
nothing  to  do  except  that  he  couldn't  stand  idly 
by  and  see  women  and  little  children  shot.  Still, 
it  was  such  a  blessing  to  Kate  that  she  had  little 
Kate  to  help  her  bear  it  all.  And  she  had  enough 
money,  too;  no  one  seemed  to  know  how;  for  Jim- 
my Blair  was  a  reckless  giver  and  a  poor  business 
men.  But  John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  and  Thomas 
Cathcart  Blake  had  been  executors.  And  that 
explained  much  to  those  who  knew;  for  once  every 
two  or  three  months,  these  two  men,  so  different 
and  yet  so  alike,  would  stalk  solemnly,  side  by 
side,  across  the  street  and,  still  solemnly,  still  side- 
by  side,  would  inform  the  violet-eyed  widow  of 
Jimmy  Blair  that  the  investments  that  her  hus- 
band had  made  for  her  had  been  very  fortunate 
and  that  there  was  in  the  bank  for  her  the  sum 
of  many  more  hundreds  of  dollars  than  poor  Jim- 
my himself  could  have  made  in  as  many  years. 


OF  CERTAIN   PEOPLE  17 

And  she,  deifying  the  man  who  had  been  her  hus- 
band, endowing  him  with  the  abilities  of  a  Mor- 
gan, a  Root  and  a  Rothschild,  would  believe  all 
that  they  said;  and  she  would  tell  the  neighbors; 
and  they,  being  good  neighbors,  would  nod,  ser- 
iously, unsmilingly.  "Jimmy  Blair  was  a  wonder- 
ful, wonderful  man,"  they  would  say.  And  the 
violet  eyes  would  grow  soft  and  dim,  and  the  sen- 
sitive lips  tremble  a  little,  and  the  prettily-poised 
head  would  sink  forward  upon  the  rounded  breast. 
And  she  was  less  unhappy;  for  when  others  love 
the  one  you  love,  even  though  that  one  be  gone, 
it  makes  the  pain  far,  far  less.  Also,  it  is  a  great 
blessing  to  have  about  one  those  who  know 
enough  not  to  know  too  much. 

So  it  was  of  the  three  houses,  and  of  those 
who  lived  therein. 


CHAPTER  TWO. 

OF  CERTAIN  OTHER  PEOPLE. 

In  the  littleness  of  things,  it  so  happened 
that  at  a  time  when  John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  and 
Thomas  Cathcart  Blake,  serious,  solemn,  side-by- 
side,  were  telling  the  widow  of  Jimmy  Blair  that 
the  Tidewater  Southern  Railroad,  in  which  her 
husband  had  largely  interested  himself  before  his 
death,  had  declared  an  extra  dividend  that  had 
enabled  them  that  day  to  deposit  to  her  credit  in 
the  bank  the  sum  of  four  thousand  two  hundred 
and  eighty-one  dollars  and  seventy-three  cents,  in 
a  little  hut  on  the  black  Breton  coast  a  woman 
lay  dying. 

It  was  a  bare  hut,  and  noisome.  In  it  it 
were  perhaps  better  to  die  than  to  live;  and  yet 
that  one  might  not  say.  From  before  it  one  might 
gaze  upon  league  upon  league  of  sullen  sea, 
stretching  to  where,  far  in  the  dim  distance,  lay 
19 


20  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

the  curve  of  the  horizon  upbearing  the  gray  dome 
of  the  sky. 

Inside  the  hovel  there  was  a  smoke-stained 
fireplace  beside  which  was  strewn  an  armful  of 
faggots.  There  was  before  it  a  number  of  broken 
and  greasy  dishes,  filled  with  fragments  of  food. 
And  all  about  on  the  floor  lay  the  litter  of  the 
sick-room. 

The  dying  woman  was  stretched  inert, 
moveless,  upon  a  rough  bed  of  rope  and  rush.  Per- 
haps she  had  been  pretty  once,  in  an  animal  way. 
She  was  not  now.  Lips  that  doubtless  had  been 
red  were  white  and  drawn  in  pain;  and  there  was 
blood  upon  them,  where  white,  even  teeth  had  bit- 
ten in  the  way  that  those  who  suffer  have  of  try- 
ing to  hide  a  greater  suffering  beneath  a  lesser. 
The  eyes,  deep  and  dark,  were  dull  and  half-hid- 
den by  their  blue,  transparent  lids.  And  the 
cheeks  were  sunken,  and  ghastly — touched  by  the 
hand  of  death. 

A  heavy,  course-featured  woman,  thin  hair 
streaked  with  gray,  flat-backed,  flat-breasted,  sat 
beside  the  rude  bed,  silent,  motionless,  awaiting  an 
end  that  she  had  so  often  watched  in  the  sullen 
ferocitv  that  is  of  beast  rather  than  of  man.  And 


OF  CERTAIN  OTHER  PEOPLE   21 

on  her  lap  lay  a  little,  pink,  puling  thing  that 
whimpered  and  twisted  weakly — a  little,  naked, 
thing  half  covered  by  roughly-cast  sacking. 

The  tiny,  twisting  thing  whimpered.  The 
woman  beside  the  bed  held  it,  waiting.  The  wo- 
man on  the  bed  moaned  a  little,  and  the  glaze 
upon  the  eyes  grew  more  thick.  And  that  was 
all. 

There  came  to  the  ears  that  were  not  too 
new  come  or  too  far  gone  to  hear,  the  sound  of 

hoof  beats  upon  the  turf.  They  came  nearer 

They  stopped.  Came  the  sound  of  spurred  heels 
striking  upon  the  trodden  dirt  without  the  door. 

There  stood  in  the  opening  the  figure  of  a 

man.  He  was  tall,  and  well-proportioned,  though 
if  anything  a  bit  too  slender — a  bit  too  graceful; 
and  he  was,  if  anything,  a  bit  too  well  groomed. 
He  had  light  hair,  and  moustache.  He  had  cold 
eyes  that  smiled;  cold  lips  that  smiled.  He  stood 
in  the  doorway,  trying  to  accustom  his  eyes  to 
the  gloom  within,  the  while  playing  a  deft  tattoo 
upon  his  booted  calf  with  light  crop  that  he  car- 
ried in  his  right  hand. 

"Well?"  he  said,  at  length,  in  the  French 
that  is  of  Paris.  "Well  ? What  is  all  this  ?" 


22  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

The  tiny  thing  whimpered.  The  woman 
upon  the  bed  moaned  a  little,  weakly.  She,  who 
sat  beside  it,  looked  up,  eyes  aflame.  She  said  no 
word. 

The  man  in  the  doorway  took  a  step  for- 
ward, entering.  He  was  still  smiling.  He  looked 
about  him;  and  then  he  continued: 

"Sick,    eh? Dying? And    that 

thing  that  you  have  in  your Ma  foil    A 

baby,  eh?"  He  laughed,  aloud.  The  broken 
peals  came  back  to  him  from  the  sodden,  smoke- 
stained  rafters.  "Strange  that  I  should  have  come 

to-day A  baby !"     He  laughed  again,  mod- 

ulatedly.  And  then,  with  an  air  of  sympathetic 
commiseration  he  said  to  the  gray-haired  old  wo- 
man with  the  eyes  of  fire : 

"Too  bad  that  your  daughter  is  not  married 

— since  she,  I  presume,  is  the  mother ! 

And  the  happy  father? — he  is ?"    He  stopped, 

waiting,  smilingly. 

The  fierce,  blazing  eyes  were  set  full  upon 
his  own.  She  said,  in  the  patois  that  was  of  her 
and  hers: 

"You  ask  that? You?" 

He  answered,  evenly. 


OF  CERTAIN  OTHER  PEOPLE        -23 

"Yes.     I  ask  that.     Even  I." 

Quickly,  with  the  agility  of  the  brute,  she 
thrust  toward  him  the  little,  puling  thing  that  lay 
upon  her  lap. 

"Look,  then,"  she  said,  in  deep,  grating 
tones. 

He  leaned  forward,  crossing  his  hands  be- 
hind him,  and  looked.  The  crop,  held  in  his 
right  hand,  tapped  lightly  against  his  booted  left 
leg.  The  woman  waited.  At  length  he  stood 
erect.  He  shook  his  head  and  smiled. 

"Babies  are  all  alike,"  he  remarked,   easily. 

"Red,    dirty,   unformed,    no   hair This   is   a 

little  redder,  a  little  more  dirty,  a  little  more  un- 
formed; it  has  a  little  less  hair Beyond  that. 

quoir 

The  shrunken  lips  of  the  old  woman  set 
tightly;  the  eyes  flared. 

"You  dare !"  she  began.       And  then: 

"It  is  your  mouth — your  chin.  The  nose  is  yours. 
The  eyes  they  shall  be  hers."  She  nodded  her 
head  in  the  direction  of  the  dying  mother  upon 

the  bed.    "And  perhaps,  some  day "    She  did 

not  finish.  She  settled  the  baby  back  again  upon 
her  knees  and  sat,  waiting. 


24  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

The  man,  still  smiling,  gazed  up  the  worn* 
an  on  the  bed. 

"Dead  ?"  he  queried,  with  a  lift  of  the  brows. 

She  did  not  answer.  He  bent  over  the 
prostrate  form;  then  again  stood  erect.  He 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

He  turned  again  to  the  shrivelled  woman  on 
the  chair. 

"You  have  named  it?"  he  asked.  "You  have 
named — our  child?" 

Still  she  did  not  answer. 

"It  were  not  improper,"  he  continued,  smil' 
ingly,  half-musingly,  "for  a  father  to  venture  a 

suggestion  anent  a  name Eh  bien,  then.     I 

should  wish  that  the  baby  be  known  as"  he  stop- 
ped for  a  moment,  thinking,  the  while  lightly  tap- 
ping booted  leg  with  the  tip  of  his  crop.  "I  should 
suggest,"  he  repeated,  "calling  her  Rien.  It  is  an 
appropriate  name,  Rien.  It  is  not  a  bad  name;  in 

fact,  it  is  rather  a  pretty  name Rien 

Rien Rien "  He    repeated   it    several 

times.  "Yes,  it  seems  to  me  that  that  is  an  ex- 
cellent name We  will,  then,  consider  her 

name  Rien."     He  laughed  once  more. 

"Because  of  certain  reasons,"  he  went  on, 


OF  CERTAIN  OTHER  PEOPLE   25 

"I'm  afraid  that  my  paternal  duties  must  cease 
with  the  naming  of  our  child." 

He  turned  to  the  dying  woman  upon  the 
bed. 

"Bon  voyage,  mam'selle — eh,  pardon,  ma- 
dame,"  he  said.  He  lifted  his  hat,  bowing.  To 
the  old  woman  he  turned. 

"To  you — "  he  began;  she  interrupted. 

"Her  eyes,  they  will  be  her  mother's,"  she 
mumbled,  sullenly. 

"Which  will  be  well,"  he  smiled.  "Her  moth- 
er had  beautiful  eyes — wonderful  eyes." 

"More  wonderful  than  you  knew,"  muttered 
the  old  woman.  "Had  you  come  a  day  sooner — " 

Still  he  smiled. 

"But  I  didn't,"  he  replied;  and  then  nod- 
ding toward  the  whimpering  thing  that  the 
woman  held: 

"You  should  guard  it  well.  There  is  of  the 
best  blood  of  France  in  its  veins."  His  lips  curled, 
whimsically.  "'Tis  strange,  that,  n'es-ce  pas?  In 
that  small  piece  of  carrion  which  you  hold  there 
upon  your  knees  runs  the  blood  of  three  kings." 
Again  he  laughed,  musically.  He  turned. 

He   had   not   seen   her   stoop.      The   long- 


26  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

bladed  knife  struck  him  in  the  arm,  piercing  flesh 
and  vein  and  sinew,  sticking  there.  Slowly  he 
plucked  it  forth,  and  turned  to  her,  still  smiling. 

"You  are  old,  madame.  Do  not  apologize; 
it  was  not  your  fault." 

He  took  the  knife  delicately  by  the  tip  and 
with  a  little  flip  sent  it  spinning  through  the  air 
and  over  the  edge  of  the  cliff.  And  he  was  gone. 

The  woman,  shrivelled,  gray-haired,  sinking 
back  in  her  chair,  sat  silent.  The  puling  thing 
upon  her  knees  whimpered.  The  dying  woman 
upon  the  rude  bed  of  rope  and  rush  moaned.  And 
that  was  all. 


CHAPTER  THREE. 

TWO  BOYS  AND  A  GIRL. 

To  the  budding  mind  of  young  Jack  Schuy- 
ler,,  life  was  a  very  pleasant  affair.  It  began  each 
morning  at  six  thirty;  and  from  then  on  until  eight 
at  nigM,  there  was  something  to  fill  each  moment. 
He  dicn't  care  for  school,  particularly;  still,  it 
wasn't  difficult  enough  to  cause  much  discomfort. 
The  natal  pains  of  study  were  not  by  any  means 
unbearable  inasmuch  as  he  was  quick  to  see  and 
to  understand;  and  furthermore,  he  was  possessed 
of  a  retentive  memory.  In  his  classes  he  assumed 
a  position  of  about  eighth  from  the  fore;  and  he 
maintained  it  with  but  little  fluctuation.  In  the 
out-of-door  sports  of  small  boys,  he  was  usually 
first — that  is,  when  Tom  Blake  wasn't.  When 
Tom  Bkke  was,  Jack  Schuyler  was  second. 

He  was  a  sturdy  boy,  active,  quick,  strong 
of  limb  and  of  body.  He  had  earnest,  serious  eyes 
28 


TWO  BOYS  AND  A  GIRL  29 

of  gray-blue,  like  those  of  his  father.  His  mouth 
and  chin  were  delicate,  like  his  mother's.  And 
he  was  thoughtful,  rather  than  impulsive. 

Tom  Blake,  on  the  other  hand,  was  impul- 
sive rather  than  thoughtful.  He  had  dark  eyes 
and  ruddy  cheeks;  and,  at  the  age  of  nine,  he  had 
learned  to  walk  on  his  hands  in  a  manner  that 
caused  acute  envy  to  rankle  in  the  bosom  of  every 
boy  in  the  neighborhood.  Also,  as  is  most  un- 
usual among  boys  of  whatever  'station,  color  or 
instinct,  he  was  self-sacrificing,  and  more  than 
generous,  and  loyal  to  a  fault. 

Kathryn  Blair  was  all  that  might  have  been 
expected  of  a  daughter  of  her  father  and  mother. 
Had  you  known  them,  it  were  difficult  to  describe 
further.  You  have  been  told  that  she  was  lithe, 
and  dainty  and  very  pretty.  And  she  was  feminine, 
very,  and  yet  not  unhoydenish;  for  she  played 
much  with  Jack  Schuyler  and  Tom  Blake.  She 
was  natural,  and  unaffected,  and  whole-souled  and 
buoyant,  quick  to  laughter,  quick  to  tears,  with  an 
inexhaustible  fund  of  merriment,  and  of  sympathy. 

Of  an  afternoon,  in  early  December,  they 
lay,  these  three  young  animals,  sprawling  upon  the 
great  room  in  Blake's  house — the  room  that  had 


30  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

been  made  for  play.  The  gentle  rays  of  the  early- 
setting  sun  streamed  in  through  the  broad  win- 
dows upon  a  tumbled  heap  of  discarded  play- 
things, and  upon  a  floor  strewn  with  that  which 
might  have  appeared  to  be  drifting  snow  but  which 
in  reality  was  feathers;  for  there  had  been  a  fierce 
pillow  fight;  and  one  of  the  pillows,  under  the 
pressure  of  rolling  little  bodies,  had  burst.  Its 
shrunken  shape  lay  in  a  far  corner  of  the  room, 
rumpled,  empty,  a  husk  of  the  plump  thing  that 
it  had  been  but  a  short  time  before. 

Kathryn  Blair,  with  slender,  stockinged  legs 
thrust  out  before  her,  was  picking  from  the 
tangled  masses  of  her  gold-brown  hair  little  cling- 
ing bits  of  down.  Tom  Blake,  beside  her  lay  flat 
upon  his  back;  and  by  him,  was  Jack  Schuyler, 
his  head  resting  upon  the  heaving  diaphragm  of 
the  other. 

At  length  Jack  Schuyler  sat  up,  looking 
about  him. 

"Phew!"  he  whistled.  "It  looks  like  a 
snowslide We'll  catch  it  now !" 

Tom  Blake  rolled  over  on  his  stomach.  He 
shook  his  head. 

"Don't  worry  about  that,"  he  said.     "Dad 


TWO  BOYS  AND  A  GIRL  31 

won't  care,  nor  mother Besides,  you're  my 

guests,  you  know What  shall  we  do  now?" 

Kathryn  Blair  said: 

"I  want  to  get  these  feathers  off  first.  They 

stick  terribly Every  time  I  think  I've  got 

hold  of  one,  I  find  it's  a  hair."  She  shifted,  so 
that  her  back  was  toward  Tom  Blake.  "Help  me, 
Tom,"  she  commanded. 

Obediently  he  rose  to  his  knees.  Resting 
his  left  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  he  plucked,  with 
clumsy  masculine  fingers  at  the  bits  of  white  that 
nestled  in  her  hair She  gave  a  little  cry. 

"Ouch !  That  hurts,  Tom !  I  guess  I'd  bet- 
ter wait  until  I  get  home  and  have  Harris  do  it. 
Harris  isn't  pretty,  but  she's  awfully  good;  and 

she  doesn't  fuss  a  bit" She  turned  around, 

suddenly,  violet  eyes  wide  with  excitement.  "Oh ! 
I  forgot  to  tell  you !"  she  cried.  "Doctor  DeLan- 
cey  said  that  maybe  he'd  bring  me  a  baby  brother 
today!" 

Tom  Blake  and  Jack  Schuyler  both  turned 
to  her. 

"He  did !"  they  cried  almost  together. 

She  nodded,  profoundly. 

"Yes,"  she  said.     "That's  why  they  sent  me 


32  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

over  here  to  get  all  mussed  up  with  feathers.  You 
know  baby  brothers  are  bashful.  Dr.  DeLancey 
told  me  all  about  it.  They  like  to  be  all  alone 
in  the  house  with  their  mothers,  so  that  they  can 
get  acquainted." 

Jack  Schuyler  rose  up  on  his  elbows. 

"I  know  a  boy,"  he  said,  "that  was  promised 

a  baby  brother  and  all  he  got  was  a  sister 

I  don't  think  that  was  square,  do  you?" 

Tom  Blake  looked  out  the  window,  thought- 
fully. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  remarked  at  length, 
judicially.  "It  might  not  have  been  the  doctor's 
fault.  Sometimes  they  get  'em  mixed,  I  guess. 

And  anyhow,  sisters  aren't  so  bad.  I  wish 

I  had  one  right  now — one  like  you,  Kathryn." 
He  turned  on  her  eyes  in  which  were  the  frank 
liking  and  admiration  of  boyhood. 

She  tossed  the  tumbled  braids  of  her  hair 
back  over  her  shoulders. 

"I'd  rather  be  a  boy,  myself,"  she  said. 
"They  don't  have  to  wear  dresses  and  things.  And 
people  don't  give  them  dolls  when  they'd  rather 

have  rocking  horses I  wish  they'd  hurry  and 

bring  that  brother.  I'm  just  wild  to  see  it !" 


TWO  BOYS  AND  A  GIRL  33 

Jack  Schuyler  sat  up. 

"Well,"  he  assured  her,  "They'll  send  over 

for  you  when  it  comes What  shall  we  do 

now  ?" 

He  waited  patiently  for  suggestions.  Tom 
Blake  and  Kathryn  Blair  sat,  foreheads 
grooved  in  thought.  At  length  Jack  Schuyler 
cried  suddenly: 

"I  know!  Let's  play  leopard  shooting!  I 
saw  a  picture  of  one  in  the  geography.  It  looked 
just  like  Fiddles."  Fiddles  was  the  plethoric  Mal- 
tese member  of  the  Blake  family.  "We've  got 
those  tin  guns,  and  we  can  stalk  it.  What  do  you 
say?" 

That  which  they  said  was  later  evidenced; 
for  when  Thomas  Cathcart  Blake  entered  the  front 
door  of  his  residence  that  night  and  started  up  the 
stairs,  he  was  met  by  an  excited  feline,  followed 
by  three  equally  excited  children.  And  *he  cat, 
on  seeing  him,  its  cosmogony  disrupted  to  su  *h  an 
extent  that  it  felt  itself  no  longer  able  to  a.V 
tinguish  friend  from  foe,  tried  to  turn  back  with 
the  result  that  its  first  pursuer  fell  over  It.  There 
was  the  added  result  that  the  next  two  pursuers 
tripped  upon  the  sprawling  form  of  the  first.  And 


34 


A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 


Thomas  Cathcart  Blake  had  great  difficulty  in  pre- 
venting himself  from  joining  the  sprawling  parade 
that  tumbled  past  him  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  and 
'lay  at  the  bottom,  a  heap  of  tossing  legs  and  arms 
and  ribbons  and  fur. 


CHAPTER  FOUR. 

THE  CHILD  AND  THE  STRANGER. 

It  is  of  necessity  that  a  story  such  as  this 
should  be  episodical,  lapsical,  disconnected.  Its 
inception  lies  in  two  countries,  and  of  different 
people.  And  it  is,  in  its  beginnings,  a  story  of 
contrasts.  So  one  may  be  permitted  again  to  say : 
At  a  time  when  pompous,  ponderous,  white-whis- 
kered, black-suited  old  Dr.  DeLancey  was  en- 
gaged in  bringing  to  the  daughter  of  Kathryn 
Blair  a  posthumous  baby  brother  that,  in  the  mys- 
tery of  things,  turned  out  after  all  to  be  a  sister, 
a  stranger  chanced  to  be  riding  at  dusk  through 
the  deep  shades  of  the  Bois  du  Nord,  in  Brittany. 

The  path  was  overhung  with  spreading 
boughs;  it  was  tumbled  with  the  wood-litter  of  a 
decade.  His  horse  went  slowly,  lifting  each  fore- 
foot daintily  and  placing  it  carefully.  And  the 
stranger  permitted  the  animal  to  take  its  own  time. 
36 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  STRANGER      37 

At  length  he  came  to  a  turning.  The  huge 
bole  of  a  great  oak  was  at  his  left.  He  rounded 
it.  His  horse  raised  its  head,  nostrils  distended, 
eyes  alert,  and  stopped. 

The  stranger  looked  up.  It  was  a  strange 
picture  that  met  his  eyes 

At  first  he  did  not  believe  that  that  which 
he  saw  was  human.  It  seemed  like  some  nymph 
of  the  wood;  for  there  are  nymphs  in  the  Bois  du 
Nord,  you  know,  many  of  them.  Anyone  who 
lives  there  will  tell  you  that. 

But  then  his  eyes  fell  upon  a  tumbled  heap 
of  clothing;  and  he  knew  that  it  was  not  a  nymph, 
after  all.  For  nymphs  do  not  wear  clothing. 

There  was  a  little  woodland  pool  before  him. 
The  sun,  straining  through  the  great,  heavy- 
leafed  boughs,  specked  it  with  blots  and  blotches 
of  gold.  Beside  it  there  sat  the  figure  of  a  girl, 
naked.  She  sat  there,  her  slender  legs  beneath 
her,  her  slender  body  leaning  upon  one  rounded, 
white  arm.  Great  masses  of  dead-black  hair  fell 
about  her  glowing  shoulders,  half  covering  the 
arm  which  supported  her.  Her  other  hand 
clasped  her  knee.  Her  dark  eyes  were  gazing  be- 
fore her  toward  the  trunk  of  the  oak.  The  stran- 


38  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ger  felt  that  she  knew  that  he  was  there;  and  yet 
she  had  not  looked  at  him. 

On  the  bole  of  the  oak  was  a  squirrel.  It 
was  motionless,  as  though  carved  out  of  the  trunk 
itself.  Beneath  it  lay.  coiled  a  snake.  Its  eyes 
were  fastened  upon  those  of  the  squirrel  and  its 
flat,  ugly  head  was  moving  gently  to  and  fro — 
to  and  fro — the  while  its  forked  tongue  played 
back  and  forth  between  its  fangs. 

They  waited  there,  the  stranger  and  the 
naked  girl.  They  waited  for  a  long,  long  time .... 

By  and  by  the  squirrel  moved  a  little.  One 
forefoot  crept  slowly  down  the  bark  of  the  oak 

and  then  the  other the  one  hind  foot — • 

and  then  its  mate And  the  squirrel  was 

nearer  to  the  snake. 

Again  they  waited,  the  stranger  and  the 

naked  girl The  squirrel  crept  yet  further 

down  the  trunk,  toward  the  slow-shifting  venom- 
ous head 

The  horse  snorted The  squirrel  raised 

its  head;  and  darted  up  the  tree  trunk.  It  was 
gone.  And  the  snake  slid  noiselessly  off  into  the 

underbrush The  naked  girl  turned  dark, 

deep  eyes  upon  the  stranger.  She  seemed  not  to 


THE  CHILD  AND  THE  STRANGER       39 

mind  her  nakedness.  And  to  him  it  seemed  not 
strange  that  she  should  not.  The  horror  of  it  all 
was  deep  within  him.  He  murmured,  beneath 
his  breath : 

"Good  God!" 

Then  he  spoke  to  her,  a  muttered  word,  a 
meaningless  word.  She  swung  her  body  over, 
sinuously,  so  that  she  faced  him,  slender  legs  half 
stretched.  The  dead  black  hair  rippled  over  bud- 
ding breasts.  She  did  not  answer.  She  merely 
looked  at  him. 

The  stranger  sat  there.  His  eyes  blinked  a 
little;  he  brushed  his  hand  across  them,  weakly. 
Then  he  looked  at  her  again. 

Came  a  sudden  rustling  in  the  brush,  beside 
him.  His  horse  leaped  forward,  almost  unseating 

him He  had  gone  far  down  the  trail 

before  he  reined  it  in.  Then  he  crossed  himself. 
His  eyes  showed  that  he  was  frightened. 

There  was  a  turning  in  the  path,  a  turn- 
ing that  led  to  the  main  road.  The  stranger 
swung  his  horse  into  this  turning.  He  knew  that 
it  added  to  the  length  of  his  journey  by  a  good 
league  and  a  half.  And  yet  he  took  that  turning. 


40  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

And,  later,  as  he  turned  into  the  travelled 
road,  he  breathed  a  deep,  deep  sigh;  and  again  he 
crossed  himself. 


41 


CHAPTER  FIVE. 

AS  TIME   PASSES. 

Time  passed  on  over  the  heads  of  young 
Jack  Schuyler  and  young  Tom  Blake  and  the 
daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair.  They  grew  in  stature, 
and  in  intellect.  They  grew  through  the  grades 
of  school  that  lie  between  nine  and  fifteen;  and 
then  they  separated  to  go  to  boarding  school. 

Jack  Schuyler  and  Tom  Blake  went  to  one; 
the  daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair  and  Kathryn  Blair 
to  another.  And  the  baby  brother  that  had  turned 
out  to  be  a  sister,  and  who  had  been  named  Elinor, 
stayed  at  home  with  the  widow  of  Jimmy  Blair; 
and  the  widow  of  Jimmy  Blair  was  now  hardly  as 
lonely  as  were  the  parents  of  Jack  Schuyler  and 
Tom  Blake. 

John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  had  built  for  him- 
self a  place  at  Larchmont,  on  the  Sound.  "Grey 
Rocks,"  he  called  it.  It  was  a  long,  low  rambling 
house,  built  of  stone  and  of  darkened  wood.  It  sat 
42 


AS  TIME  PASSES  43 

ensconced  in  a  deep  phalanx  of  great,  green  trees 
at  the  head  of  a  great,  green  lawn.  It  was  not 
a  big  house,  of  pretension,  of  arrogant  wealth, 
of  many  servants — of  closely-shaven  shrubbery 
and  woodeny  landscape  gardening.  It  was,  rather, 
a  house  that  was  a  home — and  there  is  a  distinc- 
tion— a  vast  distinction;  for  there  is  many  a  house 
that  is  not  a  home  even  as  there  is  many  a  home 
that  is  not  a  house. 

Thomas  Cathcart  Blake  built  for  himself 
another  house,  next  to  it.  That  also  was  a 
rambling,  homelike  place,  with  broad  halls  and 
deep  windows,  and  wide  doors.  And  the  doors 
he  kept  open  most  of  the  time;  for  he  liked  good 
people,  and  good  people  liked  him.  His  big 
yacht  lay  during  most  of  the  summer  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  the  end  of  his  pier.  He  lived  on  it 
part  of  the  time,  with  Mrs.  Thomas  Cathcart 
Blake,  and  their  guests;  part  of  the  time  he  lived 
on  the  shore,  in  the  house  that  he  had  built.  Dr. 
DeLancey  once  asked  him  if  he  ever  moved  the 
yacht  from  its  moorings,  and  wanted  to  bet  that 
the  sail  covers  were  stuffed  with  hay.  Thomas 
Cathcart  Blake  grinned  and  said  that,  as  for  tak- 
ing the  yacht  out  to  sea,  he  was  afraid  of  getting 


44  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

it  wet;  and  he  wouldn't  want  to  bet  as  to  what 
the  sail  covers  were  stuffed  with  because  it  might 
be  excelsior,  or  cotton,  or  any  one  of  a  number 
of  things. 

They  always  had  much  company  at  "The 
Lawns,"  which  was  the  name  of  the  house,  and 
on  the  "Idlesse,"  which  was  the  name  of  the  yacht 
that  seldom  sailed;  although  Dr.  DeLancey 
begged  them  to  rechristen  it  "The  Dock,"  or  "The 
Stake  Boat,"  or  something  of  the  sort,  which  he 
thought  would  be  much  more  appropriate.  And 
among  this  company,  was  a  great  deal,  the  widow 
of  Jimmy  Blair,  and  her  daughter. 

Young  Jack  Schuyler  and  young  Tom 
Blake  got  home  from  college  that  year  about  the 
middle  of  June.  Kathryn  Blair  was  a  few  days 
later,  owing  to  certain  nonacademic  festivities 
which  she  didn't  want  to  miss.  You  can  know 
how  popular  and  attractive  and  altogether  charm- 
ing she  was  when  I  tell  you  that  she  was  like  her 
mother  at  her  age;  and  all  New  York  knows  how 
hard  it  was  even  for  Jimmy  Blair — and  there  have 
been  very  few  Jimmy  Blairs,  you  know — to  make 
any  perceptible  progress  amid  the  choking  masses 
of  his  competing  fellows. 


AS  TIME  PASSES  45 

Jack  Schuyler  and  Tom  Blake  went  down 
to  the  train,  in  a  trap,  to  meet  her.  They  hardly 
recognized  the  girl  with  whom  they  had  pillow- 
fought  and  leopard-stalked  in  the  dainty  figure 
that  descended  from  the  dusty  train.  A  year, 
with  a  girl  of  eighteen,  means  vast  changes;  and 
when  that  year  has  been  spent  at  boarding  school, 
it  means  changes  yet  more  vast,  inhnitely.  Thus, 
it  was  that  Jack  Schuyler  and  Tom  Blake  stood, 
jaws  agape,  eyes  wide-open,  and  stared — frankly, 

unequivocally  stared Then  they  went  to 

meet  her;  and  both  tried  to  shake  hands  at  once; 
then  both  tried  to  pick  up  her  travelling  case  at 
once;  and  they  bumped  their  heads. 

For  the  first  half  mile  of  the  drive  to  the 
shore,  they  sat  dumb,  thinking  with  sore  strain- 
ings of  mind  for  things  to  say,  and  rejecting  each 
because  it  didn't  seem  to  be  good  enough.  Final- 
ly Tom  Blake  ventured  a  remark  anent  the 
weather.  No  harm  came  to  him.  So  Jack  Schuy- 
ler ventured  one  about  the  wind.  He  also  went 
scatheless. 

At  length  Tom  Blake,  looking  at  the  fresh, 
clean  beauty  of  the  girl  on  the  other  seat,  forgot 
himself,  and  voiced,  in  the  moment  of  his  tern- 


46  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

porary  aberration,  that  which  was  in  the  two  ado* 
lescent  male  minds. 

"Doggone,  but  you've  grown  pretty,  Kate !" 
and  then  blushed. 

She  blushed,  too,  and  looked  at  Jack  Schuy- 
ler.  At  which  he  blushed  and  almost  carromed 
the  trap  against  a  telegraph  pole.  Whereat  they 
all  laughed.  And  from  then  on,  they  were  them- 
selves. 

They  were  met  by  her  mother  at  "The 
Lawns,"  and  by  Dr.  DeLancey.  Dr.  DeLancey 
was  not  bashful.  He  pinched  her  glowing  cheek 
and  looked  her  over,  critically. 

"A  positive  symposium  of  pulchritude,"  he 
declared.  "I  wish  I  were  fifty  or  seventy-five 
years  younger,  by  Jove !  If  you  two  boys  let  any 
rank  outsider  take  her  out  of  the  family,  you'll 
have  me  to  reckon  with.  Yes,  by  Jove,  you  will ! 
And  you'll  find  that  while  I  may  be  a  poor 
fencer,  and  a  worse  boxer,  I'm  still  a  good 
spanker  I" 


47 


CHAPTER  SIX. 

AN   ACCIDENT. 

Dr.  DeLancey,  sitting  under  the  awning  of 
the  after  deck  of  "The  Idlesse,"  and  gazing  out 
upon  the  sound  where  Jack  Schuyler,  Tom  Blake 
and  Kathryn  Blair  were  defying  the  laws  of  na- 
ture in  a  thirty  foot  knockabout,  much  to  the  un- 
spoken anxiety  of  two  fathers  and  the  spoken  fear 
of  three  mothers,  again  voiced  this  thought  on 
the  following  evening. 

"The  prettiest,  sweetest,  finest,  loveliest 
child  I  ever  knew,  by  Jove,"  he  declared;  then, 
bowing,  "present  company,  of  course,  excepted 

Yes,  sir.    If  you  two  old  ninnies  don't  force 

your  sons  to  marry  her,  I'll  take  it  into  my  own 
hands,  damme  if  I  don't,  by  Jove!" 

"But  they  can't  both  marry  her,"  protested 
the  widow  of  Jimmy  Blair,  placing  her  arm  about 
the  baby  brother  that  had  turned  out  to  be  a 
sister. 

48 


AN  ACCIDENT  49 

The  Doctor  waved  his  hand,  loftily. 

"A  mere  detail,"  he  asserted.  "As  long  as 
one  of  'em  marries  her,  that  fixes  it,  doesn't  it? 
And  it  doesn't  make  any  difference  which  one; 
they're  equally  fine  boys,  both  of  'em.  Look  at 
'em.  Did  you  ever  see  better  shoulders — • 
better  shaped  heads — better  carriages?  Mighty 
dashed  handsome  boys,  too,  they  are — get 
it  from  their  mothers,"  he  bowed  elaborate- 
ly to  Mrs.  John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  and 
to  Mrs.  Thomas  Cathcart  Blake,  then  added  a 
look  of  contempt  for,  and  at  their  husbands.  "Yes, 
sir,"  he  went  on,  "they're  fine  boys,  the  two  of 
'em — no  denying  that.  And  she — she's  the  right 
sort — no  frills,  or  airs,  or  bluffs.  Sensible,  natural. 
If  I'd  have  had  a  few  more  patients  like  them, 
I'd  have  starved  to  death  long  ago.  Why,  they 
didn't  have  even  a  single  measle — not  one  whoop- 
ing cough  out  of  the  lot.  Disgraceful !" 

Thomas  Cathcart  Blake  lifted  his  hand.  An 
attentive  steward  stood  before  him. 

"Johnson,"  he  said,  "bring  Dr.  DeLancey  a 
drink.  Bring  him  something  that  it  will  take  him 
a  long  time  to  absorb;  for,  when  he  is  drinking, 
he  can't  be  talking." 


5o  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

In  the  meanwhile,  far  out  on  the  sound,  the 
little  knockabout  was  heeling  far  over  in  the  play- 
ful breath  of  the  summer  breeze.  Tom  Blake, 
bare-headed,  bare-armed,  was  at  the  tiller.  Jack 
Schuyler,  also  bare-headed  and  bare-armed,  sat  on 
the  after  overhang,  tending  the  sheet,  and  bracing 
muscular  legs  against  the  swirling  seas  that,  leap^ 
ing  over  the  low  freeboard,  tried  to  swirl  him  off 
among  them.  Kathryn  Blair,  leaned  lithely  against 
the  weather  rail,  little,  white-canvas-shod  feet 
braced,  skirts  whipping  about  her  slender  body, 
rounded  arms  gripping  the  wet  edge  of  the  cock- 
pit rail.  The  gold-brown  hair,  in  loosened  strands, 
whipped  across  her  tanned  cheek;  her  gown,  open 
at  the  throat,  revealed  a  glimpse  of  straight,  per- 
fectly-poised throat;  her  lips  were  parted  and  her 
breath  came  fast  in  the  excitement  of  it. 

Blake  held  the  knockabout  to  its  course, 
with  the  confidence  of  youth  in  his  prowess,  against 
them.  The  little  boat  leaped  forward  from  crest 
to  crest,  stopping  between  to  shake  the  water 
from  its  deck.  Above  was  the  blue  sky — all  about 
them  the  blue  water,  white  crested. 

The  girl,  bracing  herself  against  a  particular- 
ly hard  pitch  of  the  boat,  balancing  herself  lightly, 


AN  ACCIDENT  51 

as  the  craft  recovered  and  again  leaped  forward, 
cried  : 

"Isn't   this  fine !" 

Blake  nodded.  Schuyler,  waist  deep  in  a 

swooping  sea,  did  not  hear The  Long  Island 

shore  was  close  at  hand  now. 

Suddenly  Blake  shouted :  "Hard  a  lee !"  and 
jammed  the  tiller  over;  Schuyler,  on  the  after  over- 
hang, scrambled  fast  to  take  in  the  slack  of  the 
sheet.  Kathryn  Blair  bent,  to  avoid  the  swing- 
ing boom. 

The  little  boat  swung  about  as  though  on 
a  pivot.  The  wind  filled  the  sail;  she  sped  for- 
ward like  a  hawk  unhooded. 

Then  something  happened.  A  stay  parted; 
there  was  a  great,  grinding  crack,  followed  by  the 
snapping  and  whipping  of  canvas.  And  the  mast 
fell. 

Schuyler  was  knocked  over  into  the  water 
by  the  boom.  It  struck  him  fair  upon  the  brow. 
Kathryn,  springing  to  catch  him,  was  hit  by  the 
flapping  canvas.  She  went  overboard,  too,  and 
under  the  sail. 

Blake,  on  the  weather  side,  was  free  from 
the  wreck.  Without  even  stopping  to  turn,  he 


52  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

dove  backward  from  the  cockpit.  Under  the  cold, 
green  water  he  went.  He  struck  out,  blindly, 
frenziedly.  His  hand  felt  something  that  was  not 
canvas  and  yet  was  cloth — struck,  and  gripped. 
Then,  holding  his  breath  still  until  he  thought  his 
lungs  would  burst,  he  felt  his  way  out  from  under 
the  sail.  The  rail  of  the  boat  was  at  hand;  he 
gripped  it.  And  he  dragged  Kathryn  to  it. 

"Hold  on!"  he  cried  in  her  ear.  "Jack's 
gone !" 

Though  but  half  conscious,  she  understood. 
Her  firm,  white  fingers  gripped  the  cutting  edge 
of  the  cockpit  rail;  she  nodded. 

Blake  struck  out  again.  He  had  tried  to 
remember  where  he  had  seen  Schuyler  disappear. 
Four  strokes  brought  him  to  the  spot;  and  then 
he  dove. 

Again  his  hand  struck  something.  Again  he 
pulled,  and  tugged,  and  fought.  At  length  he 
was  at  the  surface.  It  was  Schuyler.  His  eyes 
were  closed. 

The  tide,  setting  down  the  sound,  was  car- 
rying the  boat  from  him;  he  set  his  teeth.  He 
caught  Schuyler  by  the  neck  of  his  jersey,  over 
his  own  shoulder,  bringing  his  head  out  of  wate*. 


AN  ACCIDENT 


53 


And  he  struck  out,  with  his  free  arm,  desperately. 

It  seemed  as  though  he  would  never  make 
progress.  A  dead  weight,  in  the  water,  is  hard 
to  drag.  Every  ounce  of  strength  that  was  in 
his  strong,  young  body  he  threw  into  those  long, 
quivering  strokes.  He  must  get  to  the  boat !  He 

must !     The  shore  was  too  far  away He 

stopped  for  a  minute,  treading  water.  There  was 
no  sail  in  sight.  He  flattened  out  in  the  water 
again,  breasting  it  with  all  his  power. 

Stroke  after  stroke  he  took — stroke  after 
stroke — reaching  with  strong  right  arm,  thrusting! 

with  strong  legs.    The  boat  was  no  nearer 

He  kept  on,  doggedly He  could  feel  that 

his  strokes  were  getting  weaker;  his  mouth  was 
under  water  more  than  half  the  time;  he  had  to 

raise  up  to  breathe But  he  fought  on 

He  began  to  grow  dizzy — there  was  a  ringing  in 
his  ears 

Suddenly  he  thought  he  saw,  right  before 
him,  the  face  of  Kathryn  Blair.  He  knew  that' 
he  did  not;  he  thought  he  did;  that  was  all.  Then, 
suddenly,  his  fingers  caught  a  rope;  the  face  was 
still  there;  and  the  rope  that  he  held  led  to  where 
it  was  caught  between  white,  even  teeth. 


54  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

A  great  wave  hit  him  a  buffet,  full  in  the  face; 
it  cleared  his  senses,  for  a  moment;  yet  perhaps 
it  was  more  due  to  the  feel  of  the  rope  in  his 

fingers Then  he  knew  that  it  was  she — that 

the  face  was  real,  and  the  rope Went  surg- 
ing through  his  mind  that  she,  taking  the  end  of 
the  sheet  in  her  teeth,  had  swum  to  him,  and  to 
Schuyler — and  that  to  her  they  both  owed  their 
lives. 

She  was  beside  him,  now,  swimming  strong- 
ly. She  gripped  an  arm  of  the  unconscious  Schuy- 
ler   Together,  she  and  Blake,  dividing  the 

weight,  slowly,  inch  by  inch,  fought  their  way 
along  the  rope.  At  length  they  reached  the  side 

of  the  swamped  knockabout Blake  crawled 

upon  its  slippery  deck.  He  lay  for  a  moment, 
helpless;  she  supported  Schuyler.  Then  he  essay- 
ed to  aid  her  again;  and  together  they  began  to 
lift  him  out  of  the  water,  and  to  safety. 

Dr.  DeLancey,  from  the  after  deck  of  "The 
Idlesse,"  had  seen  the  accident.  A  minute  later, 
he,  John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler,  Thomas  Cathcart 
Blake,  the  captain  of  "The  Idlesse,"  and  two 

sailors  were  in  the  launch They  reached 

the  side  of  the  knockabout  as  Blake  and  Kathryn 


AN  ACCIDENT  55 

were  dragging  Jack  Schuyler  from  the  water;  and 
they  took  him  into  the  other  boat.  Blake,  in  his 
father's  clutch,  followed.  At  the  same  time,  Dr. 
DeLancey  leaned  over  to  grasp  Kathryn.  But  she 
shook  her  head,  and  smiled,  weakly: 

"No,"  she  said.  "I — I  had  to — to  take  off 
part  of  my  clothes.  I — " 

Dr.  DeLancey  was  an  old  man;  some  assert 
that  he  fell  overboard.  However,  be  that  as  it 
may,  when  he  came  to  the  surface,  he  had  his  arm 
around  Kathryn  Blair,  and  she  had  his  long  coat 

draped  around  her  slender  figure And,  as 

they  lifted  her  to  the  deck,  she  fainted. 


CHAPTER  SEVEN. 

AN   INCIDENT. 

Destiny  has  a  sense  of  humor;  a  sense  of 
humor  sardonic,  it  is  true,  cruel,  sometimes  grew- 
some;  and  yet  it  is  a  sense  of  humor.  Otherwise 

There  had  been  in  France  a  man  of  the  no- 
bility— a  man  in  whose  veins  flowed  the  blood  of 
three  kings — a  man  handsome  of  face,  graceful  of 
figure,  debonair — a  man  who  had  sinned  much, 
and  who  had  paid  for  that  sinning  only  in  the  suf- 
ferings of  others;  and  they  had  been  many. 

That  man  had  many  estates — many  servants 
— many  horses — much  money.  He  had  been  to 
Brittany  twice;  and  only  twice.  Yet  he  went  a 
third  time,  and  after  five  years. 

He  went  alone.  He  rode  his  horse  through 
the  narrow,  brush-grown  path  by  which  had  gone 
the  stranger  who  had  seen  the  naked  girl,  at  the 
57 


58  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

edge  of  the  woodland  pool,  five  years  before.  And 
he  came,  at  length,  to  the  edge  of  the  wood,  and 
to  the  clearing  where  lay  the  little  hut,  smoky, 
dirty,  littered. 

He  dismounted  from  his  horse,  there,  why, 
he  did  not  know.  He  went  forward,  to  the  hut. 

An  old  woman,  bent,  white  haired,  sat  on  a 
rude  chair,  in  the  sun,  beside  the  door.  She  looked 
up  as  he  approached.  She,  in  no  way,  heeded  the 
elaborate  bow  that  he  made— -a  graceful  bow,  low 
and  sweeping,  and  yet  a  salutation  sarcastic. 

"Bon  jour,  madame,"  he  began.  "Madame 
looks  well;  but  Death  is  never  far  from  the  aged 

It  should  be  a  consolation,"  looking  about 

him,  casually,  "for  one  who  lives  as  madame." 

The  shrivelled  old  woman  made  no  answer. 

The  man  went  on,  evenly,  the  while  tapping 
with  the  end  of  his  slender  crop  a  booted  leg: 

"Eh  bien,  I  have  come,  as  you  see.  The  pa- 
ternal passion  will  not  down  in  the  breast  of  a 
man  domestically  inclined."  He  laughed.  "I 
have  been  going  about,  seeing  my  families,"  he 
smiled.  "It  has  been  interesting — drolly  interest- 
ing. Ma  foil"  Yet  again  he  laughed,  musically. 
"There  have  been  pleadings,  and  revilings — tears, 


AN  INCIDENT  59 

and  curses — bended  knees,  and  unbended  arms." 
He  indicated  with  a  graceful  gesture  a  deep  cut 
upon  the  back  of  his  left  hand.  "It  was  a  woman 
— a  very  pretty  woman,"  he  explained.  "At  least, 
she  had  been  pretty;  and  she  was  again  pretty 
when  she  did  that.  Her  eyes — it  was  like  light- 
ing a  fire  in  a  cave.  Did  you  ever  light  a  fire  in 
a  cave,  madame?"  he  queried,  gently,  graciously; 
and  then:  "But,  of  course  not!  Women  kindle 
their  fires  in  stoves — or  fire-places.  It  is  for  men 
to  light  the  fires  of  caves."  Yet  once  more  he 
laughed,  softly. 

The  old  woman,  with  the  white,  wispy  hair, 
still  was  silent,  motionless;  though  her  eyes  spoke. 
And  that  which  they  spoke,  his  eyes  heard;  and 
once  more  he  laughed. 

"I  had  a  daughter  here,"  he  continued.  "Did 
I  not?  Or  was  it  a  son?  Ma  foi!  It  were  dif- 
ficult  ah,  yes!  I  remember  now!  A  daugh- 
ter. A  little,  red,  hairless,  dirty  thing  she  was. 

I  have  a  great  curiosity the  blood  of  three 

kings,  you  know;  surely  that  would  overcome  the 
blood  of  the  good  God  knows  how  many  peasant 
swine.  She  is  not  red,  and  hairless,  and  dirty  now, 
in  faith!  She  is  clean-limbed,  and  straight,  and 


60  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

white.  A  thousand  louis  to  a  sou,  that  she  is  P . . » 
His  brow  was  creased  in  the  travail  or  retrospec- 
tion. 

"I  gave  her  a  name,  did  I  not?"  he  asked. 
"It  seems  to  me — ah,  yes.  Rien,  it  was.  A  very 
pretty  name — yes,  an  excellent  name — meaning 
much  and  little— everything,  and  yet  nothing." 
He  laughed  at  his  own  conceit,  softly.  "Tell  me, 
where  is  she  now?  It  might  be  that  she  is  dead, 
eh?"  He  eyed  the  old  woman,  closely;  then  he 
shook  his  head.  "No,"  he  went  on,  "she  is  not 
dead.  She " 

He  had  seen  nothing,  that  .is  certain.  Yet, 
suddenly  he  ceased  in  his  speech;  the  smile  left 
his  lips;  and  slowly,  very  slowly,  he  turned. 

She  was  standing  there,   behind   him,  her 

eyes  upon  him She  was  straight,  and 

slender,  and  perfectly  formed.  A  single  garment 
covered  her,  running  across  one  shoulder,  reach- 
ing to  her  knees.  It  left  one  breast  exposed,  and 
the  white,  slender  legs  and  perfect  feet.  She  stood 
in  a  posture  of  infinite  grace — of  infinite  poise. 
She  looked  at  him. 

Then  it  was  that  the  shrivelled  old  woman 
spoke.    She  said  to  the  girl : 


AN  INCIDENT  6l 

"Votre  pere." 

And  that  was  all. 

The  child  looked  at  the  man;  the  man  looked 
at  the  child;  and  so  for  a  long,  long  time  they 

stood  eye  upon  eye At  length  she  began 

to  smile  a  little,  with  her  lips.  But  he  did  not 
smile 

After  a  long,  long  time,  she  took  a  slow, 

sinuous  step  toward  him — then  another He 

stepped  back,  still  looking  at  her,  his  eyes  still  on 

hers He  was  back  to  the  great  cliff — the 

sheer  cliff  at  the  base  of  which  the  huge  seas  ever 

beat  in  sullen,  unceasing  impotence Yet, 

another  step  she  took,  toward  him 

His  breath  came  chokingly,  gaspingly.  Yet 

another  step  he  took,  away  from  her , 

Yet  another And  then 

It  was  an  accident,  perhaps.  Yes,  of  course; 
it  must  have  been  an  accident.  He  had  not  noticed 

For,  as  again  she  advanced,  her  eyes  on 

his,  his  eyes  on  hers,  again  he  retreated.  And 
suddenly,  in  utter  silence  save  for  the  rending  of 
crumbling  earth  and  uprooted  grass,  he  slid  over 

the  edge  of  the  great  rock Before  the 

eyes  of  the  girl  lay  only  the  restless,  heaving  sea, 


62  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

and  beyond  the  dull  gray  of  the  horizon  and  the 
cupped  sky. 

She  turned,  slowly,  smiling  a  little.  The 
shrivelled,  shrunken  old  woman  bent  her  head 
forward  upon  her  flat  breast,  thrice. 

"Bien,"  she  muttered.     And  that  was  alL 


CHAPTER  EIGHT. 

OF  CERTAIN  GOINGS. 

It  so  happened  that,  on  the  winter  after  Jack 
Schuyler  and  Tom  Blake  graduated  from  college, 
death  came  to  the  big  houses  on  the  Avenue.  Mrs. 
John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  went  first;  Mrs.  Thomas 
Cathcart  Blake  went,  almost,  with  her;  for  she  had 
been  by  the  bedside  of  her  friend  during  all  her 
illness;  and  her  friend,  going,  had  bestowed  upon 
her  its  horrible  heritage.  And  so  she  went,  too. 

Their  going  left  in  the  two  great  houses, 
monstrous  voids  that  might  never  be  filled.  John 
Stuyvesant  Schuyler  and  Thomas  Cathcart  Blake 
loved  their  wives;  and  when  a  man  has  loved  a 
woman,  and  that  woman  his  wife,  as  these  two 
had  loved,  it  seems  in  a  way  to  disrupt  the  cos- 
mogony of  things.  It  takes  ambition  from  the 
brain,  and  the  stamina  from  the  spine;  and  the 
days  are  very,  very  long,  while  the  nights  are  yet 
infinitely  longer. 

64 


OF  CERTAIN  GOINGS  65 

Thomas  Cathcart  Blake,  in  the  vastness  of 
all  that  now  was  not,  forgot  to  care  for  himself. 
He,  who  had  been  jovial,  became  silent.  Some 
times,  of  nights,  he  would  walk  alone  for  hours. 
The  weather  made  no  difference — in  fact,  he  sel- 
dom noticed  what  the  weather  was.  He  was  an 
old  man  now,  close  to  sixty 

Dr.  DeLancey,  on  a  night  visit,  met  him  one 
thick,  sodden  night  at  the  corner  ot  Thirty- 
third  Street  and  the  Avenue,  coming  from  the 
club.  The  good  doctor  bumbled  out  of  his 
brougham,  seized  him  by  the  arm  and  drew  him 
wet  and  dripping  into  its  protected  interior. 

"You  fossiliferous-headed  old  chump,"  he 
howled,  exasperatedly.  "You  pin-headed  old  am- 
phibian. If  your  sole  and  utter  ambition  is  to 
get  pneumonia  and  die,  I  don't  know  any  way  in 
which  you  can  better  achieve  your  purpose.  Sit 
down  in  the  corner  there  and  drink  this,"  he  ex- 
tracted from  his  case  a  little  flask  of  brandy,  "or 
I'll  ask  the  horse  to  come  in  and  bite  you !" 

"Turn  around  there,  Mose !"  he  yelled,  "and 
drive  to  Mr.  Blake's  house." 

Mose  did  so;  and  once  there,  the  doctor, 
abusing  and  bullying  his  patient,  got  him  upstairs 


66  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

and  into  the  bed,  and  then  applied  to  the  protest- 
ing man  who  seldom  had  known  what  it  was  even 
to  have  a  cold,  all  manner  of  exposurial  antidotes. 

"But  the  patient  that  you  were  going  to 
see !"  protested  Thomas  Cathcart  Blake. 

"No  friend  of  mine,"  returned  Dr.  DeLan- 
cey.  "Only  a  patient.  Patients  are  plenty,  but 
friends  are  few.  Let  him  get  someone  else,  or 
die,  as  he  chooses.  It's  none  of  my  business. 
Here,  drink  this."  And  he  poured  between  the 
protesting  lips  of  Thomas  Cathcart  Blake  a  nau- 
seating draught  of  something  that  was  most  mal- 
odorous;-for  Dr.  DeLancey  was  an  allopath,  and 
a  good  one. 

But,  good  as  he  was,  he  was  too  late.  Pneu- 
monia had  been  before  him;  and,  two  weeks  later, 
in  spite  of  all  that  the  good  doctor,  and  several 
other  equally  good  doctors,  could  do,  Thomas 
Cathcart  Blake  died.  And  he  didn't  seem  sorry 
at  going. 

Before  he  went,  he  called  to  him  his  son,  and 
to  that  son  he  said  many  things.  Most  of  the 
things  that  he  said  are  neither  your  business  nor 
mine.  But  of  the  things  that  he  said  we,  may 


OF  CERTAIN  GOINGS  67 

know  one.  He  wanted  his  son  to  marry  the 
daughter  of  the  widow  of  Jimmy  Blair. 

Young  Tom  Blake,  between  the  sobs  that 
are  becoming  a  man,  answered: 

"I  want  to,  dad.  I've  always  wanted  to.  And 
I  will,  if  I  can." 

His  father  counselled,  weakly: 

"Get  her  honestly,  boy,  or  not  at  all.  If 
you  get  her,  cherish  her — give  her  everything  that 
there  is  in  you  to  give — for  there's  nothing  that 
a  man  can  give  that  a  good  woman  doesn't  de- 
serve. Now,  God  bless  you,  son and go." 

Tom  Blake  clung  to  the  sheets.  It  was  hard 
to  lose  such  a  father  and  such  a  mother,  and  all 
within  a  six  month.  He  cried,  as  you  would  cry, 

or  I,  and  be  glad  that  crying  might  be 

Dr.  DeLancey,  at  length,  managed  to  loosen  his 
clenching  fingers.  Dr.  DeLancey  was  crying,  too; 
the  tears  ran  down  his  veined  cheeks  to  lose  them- 
selves in  the  hair  of  his  cheeks.  He  tried  to  fume 
and  fuss  and  splutter,  as  was  his  wont;  but  he 
couldn't.  He  could  just  put  his  hand  around  Tom 
Blake's  heaving  young  shoulders,  listen  to  his 
choking,  broken  sobs  and  say,  over  and  over,  and 


68  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

over  again :  "There,  there,  my  boy !  There,  there ! 
There,  there !" 

It's  pretty  hard,  you  know,  to  lose  a  father 
and  a  mother  like  that,  and  all  within  six  months. 


CHAPTER  NINE. 

OF  CERTAIN  OTHER  GOINGS. 

John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler's  end  was  differ- 
ent. He  was  a  man  reserved — a  man  who  thought 
much  and  told  little.  His  illness  baffled  Dr.  De- 
Lancey  at  first;  but  then  he  knew  what  the  disease 
was;  although  to  it  he  could  give  no  polysyllabic 
name  of  Latin,  and  for  it  he  could  prescribe  no 
remedies;  for  the  cure  had  gone  from  the  hands 
of  man  into  the  hands  of  God.  And  to  the  hands 
of  God,  John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  went,  at  length, 
to  find  it;  and  who  shall  say  that  his  quest  was 
unsuccessful  ? 

He,  too,  on  his  dying  bed  called  his  son  to 
him;  and  to  this  son  he  said  many  things;  and 
among  these  things  was  that  it  had  ever  been  the 
dearest  wish  of  her  that  had  gone  as  well  as  of 
him  that  was  about  to  go  that  their  son  should 
wed  the  daughter  of  the  widow  of  Jimmy  Blair. 
70 


OF  CERTAIN  OTHER  GOINGS        71 

And  Jack  Schuyler,  sobbing  by  the  side  of 
the  great,  mahogany  bed  in  the  great,  dark  room, 
even  as  he  had  sobbed  beside  the  same  bed  in  the 
same  room  so  short  a  time  before,  promised,  as 
Tom  Blake  had  promised,  that  all  that  he  might 
do  to  bring  to  wife  the  girl  his  parents  desired 
for  him  as  wife,  he  would  do;  and  not  from  any 
obeisance  to  filial  reasons,  but  because  he  wanted 
to — because  he  loved  her — had  always  loved  her. 

It  was  good  old  Dr.  DeLancey  who  repeated 
his  offices  in  this  case,  as  in  the  other;  and  he  re- 
peated them  in  the  same  way,  patting  the  broad, 
throbbing  young  shoulders — reiterating  with 
twitching  lips,  his  "There,  there,  boy!  There, 
there,  there !" — reiterating  it  uselessly — and  know- 
ing that  it  was  uselessly  that  he  reiterated — and 
yet  helpless  in  the  vast  profundity  of  helplessness 
that  was  his. 

And  that  same  year  did  Dr.  DeLancey  lose 
yet  another  friend  that  was  a  patient — a  patient 
that  was  a  friend.  It  was  the  violet-eyed  widow 
of  Jimmy  Blair.  And  all  night  long,  from  gray 
dusk  until  crimson  dawn,  Dr.  DeLancey  had  sat 
in  the  darkened  parlor  of  the  warm  little  house 
of  red  brick;  he  had  sat  in  a  rocking  chair,  and 


72  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

on  either  old  knee  he  had  held  a  sob-wracked, 
grief-torn,  motherless  girl,  the  one  herself  almost 
old  enough  to  be  a  mother.  And  again  he  had 
cried.  Some  doctors  may  lose  through  oft-recur- 
rence  visualized  their  susceptibility  to  suffering; 
ibut  Dr.  DeLancey  was  not  of  them.  And  when 
•he  stumbled  on  stiffened  legs  out  of  the  darkened 
•parlor  and  into  the  incongruous  mellow  radiance 
<of  the  spring  sunshine,  his  eyes  were  still  wet^  and 
ihe  didn't  care  who  knew  it. 


73 


CHAPTER  TEN. 

TWO  BOYS  AND  A  DOCTOR. 

Young  Jack  Schuyler  and  young  Blake,  a 
week  later,  went  to  see  the  doctor  in  his  office. 
He  looked  up  from  his  paper. 

"Well?"  he  said. 

Tom  Blake  cleared  his  throat. 

"We  wanted  to  ask  you,  Doctor,"  he  began, 
"if " 

"Eh,"  assisted  Jack  Schuyler;  "that  is,  we 
wanted  to  know " 

" you  see,  that  is — I " 

" — yes,  we  thought " 

" — you  know,  Mrs.  Blair " 

The  doctor  rose;  he  stood  between  the  two 
broad-shouldered,  erect  young  men,  placing  a 
hand  on  the  arm  of  each. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  assured  them.  "Don't 
you  worry." 

74 


TWO  BOYS  AND  A  DOCTOR          75 

"But,"  protested  Tom  Blake,  "we've  got  so 

much  money,  and  they .  Isn't  there  some  way 

that  you  can  fix  it,  doctor?  You  know  how  to 
do  these  things;  and  we're  so  helpless." 

"And,"  elaborated  Jack  Schuyler,  "they'd 
never  suspect  you,  you  know." 

"I  tell  you  it's  all  fixed,"  returned  the  doc- 
tor, with  testiness  that  from  him  was  cordiality 
rampant.  "Jimmy  Blair  left  a  very  comfortable 
estate,  in  trust.  They'll  have  all  they  want  as  long 
as  they  live." 

He  didn't  tell  them — that  is,  not  then, 
though  later  he  did — that  one  of  the  last  acts  of 
John  Stuyvesant  Schuyler  and  Thomas  Cathcart 
Blake  had  been  to  walk  solemnly,  side  by  side,, 
across  the  street  and  tell  the  widow  of  Jimmy 
Blair,  that,  in  accordance  with  the  ante-mortem 
desires  of  her  late  husband,  they  had  devoted  a 
certain  portion  of  the  fortune  that  he  had  left  to 
the  establishment  of  a  trust  fund  that  would  yield 
her  an  annual  income  of  $12,000.  He  didn't  tell 
them,  then.  Later  he  did.  He  couldn't  help  it. 
But  at  that  time 

He  slapped  them  both  on  the  back,  and  sent 
them  from  the  room.  He  stood,  on  the  top  step 


76  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

of  the  flight  that  led  from  sidewalk  to  front  door, 
and  watched  them  swing,  broad-shouldered,  sup- 
ple, erect,  down  the  bright  Avenue. 

"Now  why  in  thunder,"  he  asked  of  himself, 
slowly,  "didn't  I  ever  get  married?"  And  then, 
"Shut  up,  you  old  fool,"  he  soliloquized.  And  he 
turned,  and,  re-entering  the  house,  slammed  the 
door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER  ELEVEN. 

A  PROPOSAL. 

Blake  waited  in  the  embrasure  of  the  win- 
dow, gazing  down  upon  the  Avenue  below,  with 
its  confusion  of  moving  vehicles  and  pedestrians. 
The  June  sun  was  overhead,  warming  the  earth 
with  gentle,  kindly  glow.  The  breath  of  summer 
was  in  the  air;  it  came  to  him,  brushing  the  cur- 
tains against  him,  cooling  his  brow.  It  was  grate- 
ful to  his  nostrils,  and  to  his  lungs;  and  he  took 
of  it  a  great,  deep  breath.  His  broad  shoulders 
squared;  his  deep,  full  chest  heaved. 

An  omnibus  stopped  on  the  corner.  He 
watched  the  horses  throw  themselves  against  their 
collars;  he  watched  the  bulky  vehicle  gather  head- 
way, and  move  on,  with  ever  increasing  momen- 
tum, through  the  maze  of  brougham  and  cab  and 
coach  and  landau. 

As  the  coach  was  lost  to  view  there  came 
Steps,  light  and  quick,  upon  the  stairs;  the  door 
78 


A  PROPOSAL  79 

opened  and  there  stood  before  him  the  daugh- 
ter of  Jimmy  Blair.  She  had  been  abroad,  under 
chaperonage,  for  a  year 

He  did  not  know  that  she  could  be  so  beau- 
tiful— he  did  not  know  that  anyone  could  ever 
hope  to  be  as  beautiful  as  was  she  who  stood  be- 
fore him.  Violet  eyes  were  no  deeper — lips  no 
more  red — teeth  no  whiter — nor  was  the  perfect 
oval  of  her  sun-kissed  cheek  any  the  more  per- 
fect. Yet,  there  was  something — the  indefinable 
something  that  marks  the  transition  of  a  beauti- 
ful girl  from  beautiful  girlhood  to  glorious  woman- 
hood   He  felt  a  strange  emptiness  within 

him;  it  was  almost  as  though  he  were  appalled  by 
so  much  beauty — so  much  glory. 

There  was  a  gladness — a  natural,  unaffected, 
real  gladness  in  her  violet  eyes  that  glowed  in 
greeting.  She  thrust  forth  a  tiny  white  hand .... 
He  had  been  wont  to  kiss  her,  on  meeting  and  on 
parting.  Now  it  never  occurred  to  him. 

"Tom!"  she  cried.  "I'm  so,  so  glad  to  see 
you  again.  It's  been  terribly  lonely.  As  fast  as 
I'd  begin  to  learn  one  language,  they'd  move  me 
somewhere  else  and  I'd  have  to  start  all  over 
again!  And  now  I  hardly  know  whether  or  not 


8o  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

I  know  any  language  at  all ! Where's 

Jack  ?  I  expected  that,  of  course,  he  would  come 
with  you." 

"He'll  be  here  bye-and-bye,  Kate " 

Blake  replied. 

She  seated  herself,  crossing  one  knee  above 
the  over,  interlocking  about  it  slender,  white 
fingers. 

"You  must  have  so  much  to  tell  me,  Tom !" 
she  bubbled,  all  animation,  gladness,  eagerness. 
"Begin!  Please,  begin!  And  then  I'll  tell  you 
everything.  Oh,  isn't  it  exciting  to  go  away  and 
come  back  again!" 

"I  have  a  lot  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  slowlj. 

"Why,  you  speak  so  seriously,  Tom.  Aren't 
you  glad  to  see  me?" 

"I'm  afraid  nobody  but  myself  knows  how 

glad Kate,  I  hardly  know  how  to  begin 

what  I  want  to  say.  I it's  hard;  not  having 

seen  you  so  long,  makes  it  harder.  I " 

She  cried,  in  pretty  amazement :  "But  what 
in  the  world  is  it?  Tom!  You  almost  frighten 
me !  I  haven't  done  anything  wrong,  have  I  ?  Shall 
I  be  put  to  bed  without  my  supper?. .  .  .Do  speak, 
Tom.  Tell  me  what  all  this  mystery  is." 


A  PROPOSAL  81 

Still  slowly,  hands  folding  and  unfolding, 
dark  eyes  upon  hers  of  violet,  he  continued : 

"Kate,  Jack  Schuyler  loves  you;  and  I  lo — " 

He  had  intended  to  say  more;  and  what  that 
more  was  one  would  but  have  had  to  look  into  his 
eyes  to  tell;  but  he  had  been  looking  into  hers; 
he  had  seen  the  gleam  that  had  leaped  there  at 
his  words;  and  that  is  why  he  did  not  finish. 

"Tom!"  she  exclaimed,  softly And 

then,  "Did  Jack  tell  you  that — himself?" 

He  nodded. 

"He  was  afraid  to  tell  me  himself?" 

Again  he  nodded.  It  was  not  so.  But  he 
lied;  as  would  you,  or  I,  had  we  been  as  good  a 
man  as  he.  He  had  come  there  knowing  that  a 
woman  loves  but  one  man.  He  had  come  there 
knowing  that,  if  Schuyler  were  not  the  man  she 
loved,  thereby  he  would  be  saved,  and  she  would 
be  saved,  much  unpleasantness.  He  had  hoped 
that  it  was  he  himself  that  she  loved.  Yet  he  had 
feared  that  it  was  not.  And  he  had  known  that 
whether  it  were  he  who  asked,  or  Schuyler,  or 
any  man,  it  would  make  no  difference;  for  when 
a  woman  like  that  loves  a  man,  it  is  that  man  alone 
she  loves;  and  the  rest  means  nothing.  No 


82  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

thought  of  an  unfair  advantage  was  in  his  mind. 
In  such  a  case  there  could  be  no  such  thing  as 
that.  It  was  only  whether  or  not  she  loved  one 
of  them,  and  if  so,  which  one;  and  beyond  that 
there  was  nothing — nothing  except  that  he  wished 
to  take  from  Schuyler  any  unhappiness  that  might 
lie  there  for  him.  For  he  was  a  friend  such  as 
few  men  may  ever  have  and,  having,  may  pray 
to  keep. 

And  now  he  knew  the  answer.  It  was  in  the 
depths  of  the  violet  eyes — in  the  eagerness  of  lips 
and  lithe,  supple  body — it  was  of  her — about  her. 
Blake's  lips  became  thin;  his  jaws  set;  his  eyes 
half  shut.  To  have  lost  a  father,  and  a  mother, 
and  such  a  girl  as  was  she,  and  all  within  an  eigh- 
teen month,  was  bitter,  indeed. 

He  heard  her  say,  as  from  a  great  distance : 
"It  was  fine  of  you  to  come  like  this,  Tom 

I  do  love  Jack ;  I  thought  once,  that  I 

loved  you,  Tom That  was  strange,  wasn't  it  ? 

It's  strange  to  sit  here  now,  with  you,  telling  you 

of  it Though,  of  course,  you  don't  care 

He  will  come  soon,  won't  he?     You  don't  know 

how  I've  missed  him,  Tom It  would  be  a 

Strange  situation,  wouldn't  it,  if  we  hadn't  known 


A  PROPOSAL  83 

one  another  so  well,  and  cared  for  one  another 
so  deeply  in  such  a  friendly,  brother-and-sisterly 

sort  of  way I  think,  in  some  ways,  I  ought 

to  be  angry  with  Jack  for  not  coming  himself .... 
But  it's  as  though  you  were  my  big  brother,  Tom 

You  know  how  Jack  feels  toward  me ;  and 

so  you  are  anxious  to  act  as  sort  of  a  buffer,  in 

case  everything  isn't — eh — as  it  should  be 

It  was  fine  of  you,  Tom;  and  you  know  how  I  ap- 
preciate it! " 

What  else  she  said,  he  did  not  know. 
It  seemed  a  thousand,  thousand  years  ere  he  rose 
to  his  feet.  He  was  suffering When  a  wom- 
an loves,  her  intuition  is  dead 

At  length  he  found  himself  on  the  street. 
But  the  sunshine  was  gone,  and  the  air  was  dead.... 

He  found  Schuyler,  and  told  him He 

watched  him  leap  through  the  door,  forgetting  his 
hat — heard  him  pounding  down  the  hall — heard 
the  street  door  as  it  slammed  behind  him.  And 
then 

It's  pretty  hard,  you  know,  to  lose  a  father, 
and  a  mother,  and  such  a  girl  as  the  daughter  of 
Jimmy  Blair;  and  all  within  an  eighteenmonth. 


CHAPTER  TWELVE. 

A  FOREIGN  MISSION 

In  the  next  few  years,  God  was  indeed  good 
to  John  Schuyler.  Health  he  kept;  honors  came 
to  him,  and  the  respect  of  men  and  of  women. 
There  were  those  who  loved  him,  many;  and  of 
those  who  hated  him  there  were  a  few;  which  is 
well,  inasmuch  as  the  hatred  of  some  men  may  be 
the  highest  praise — the  highest  favor — that  they 
have  to  bestow. 

A  child  came  to  them,  at  length — to  him  and 
to  the  daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair;  and  that  child 
was  as  like  to  the  daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair  as  the 
daughter  had  been  like  her  mother. 

A  part  of  the  time  they  lived  in  the  city; 
but  most  of  their  days  were  spent  out  at  the 
Larchmont  place,  on  the  Sound,  that  John  Stuy- 
vesant  Schuyler  had  built  so  long  ago.  And  there 
they  were  very,  very  happy. 
85 


86  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

The  quiet,  peaceful  beauty  of  "Grey  Rocks" 
more  than  ever  appealed  to  the  soul  of  Tom  Blake 
as  he  stood  upon  the  bridge  of  his  yacht,  "The 
Vagrant,"  and  watched  the  ever-enlarging  lawn 
apparently  rush  toward  him.  He  closed  his  eyes, 

a  little.  The  sun  was  very  bright He 

turned  toward  the  Long  Island  shore,  hazy  and 

unreal  in  the  mists  of  the  morning When  he 

turned  back  again,  the  huge,  sea-going  craft,  a 
thing  of  glistening  white  and  shining  brass,  was 
making  a  wide,  graceful  sweep  in  the  churning 
water,  and  the  house  had  ceased  to  rush  down 
upon  him.  It  now  stood  inviting,  beckoning,  as 
close  at  hand  as  it  were  safe  to  be. 

A  launch  was  lowered,  and  the  owner's  gang- 
way dropped.  And  in  another  moment,  Blake 
stood,  balancing  himself  nicely  against  the  rolling 
of  the  little  craft,  as  it  rushed  through  the  blue- 
gray  water  toward  the  landing  pier  at  the  foot 
of  the  velvet  lawn. 

Like  one  who,  in  haste,  yet  longs  to  loiter 
Blake  made  his  way  across  the  sward  to  where, 
jutting  out  from  a  corner  of  the  house,  a  tiny  bay 
window  thrust  itself  forth  among  a  confusion  of 
tangled  nasturtiums,  copper-colored,  yellow,  crim- 


A  FOREIGN  MISSION  87 

son.  With  the  privileged  assurance  of  one  long 
known  and  long  loved,  he  thrust  open  the  left 
hand  window,  which  extended  to  the  ground,  and 
entered  the  room. 

There  came  a  little,  delighted  cry  of  sur- 
prise; a  rather  uncertain,  "Oh,  Mr.  Tom!"  and  in 
another  instant  he  was  enveloped  in  a  tiny  cloud 
of  lace  and  ribbons  and  primly  starched  linen  while 
two  bare,  brown  little  legs  waved  wildly  about  his 
breast,  a  pair  of  very  sticky  lips  were  set  against 
his  own,  and  his  neck  found  itself  in  the  clasp  of 
tiny  fingers  that  had  known  orange-juice  and 
oat-meal  and  sugar — and  possibly  jam — since  they 
had  had  intimate  association  of  water. 

At  length  he  set  her  down  upon  the  floor, 
gently. 

"Well,  well,  little  partner,"  he  said,  grinning 
sociably,  "that  most  surely  was  a  succulent  salute 

I  perceive  from  the  remainder  of  your 

repast"  his  eyes  had  fallen  upon  the  little  break- 
fast table  and  the  over-turned  high-chair  which, 
with  infinite  dignity  unbent,  the  butler  was  res- 
cuing from  prostration  "that  you  like  a  little  oat- 
meal on  your  sugar." 

"I  do,"  confessed  the  child,  friendly.     "But 


88  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

Woberts  doesn't.  Do  you,  Woberts?"  Without 
waiting  for  the  corroboration  of  the  somewhat 
perturbed  Roberts,  she  turned  again  to  Blake.  "I 

like  heaps  and  heaps  of  sugar Woberts  gives 

it  to  me  when  there  isn't  anyone  looking,  don't 
you,  Woberts?"  And  then,  very  seriously,  she 
added,  "I  like  Woberts." 

Blake  laughed,  a  low,  rumbling,  ringing 
laugh. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  he  said.  "I  used  to 

have  sugar  once I  liked  those  who  gave  it  to 

me." 

He  picked  her  up  and  set  her  again  in  the 
high-chair,  moving  it  close  to  the  table  with  its 
dainty  china  and  center-piece  of  pink  carnations. 

The  child  looked  up  at  him,  half  wondering. 
She  was  pretty — very  pretty — with  serious,  round 
violet  eyes,  sun-kissed  cheeks,  and  hair  of  the  soft 
brown  that  is  of  kin  to  gold. 

"Don't  you  get  any  sugar  now?"  she  asked, 
very  seriously. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  any?  "  she  persisted.    "Never?" 

"Not  any,"  he  replied,  gravely.    "Never." 

Swiftly  she  picked  up  the  little  silver  sugar 


A  FOREIGN  MISSION  89 

jar;  she  cast  an  investigative  eye  up  at  the  solemn 
visage  of  the  butler. 

"Mr.  Tom  can  have  some  of  ours,  can't  he, 
Woberts?"  she  inquired,  gravely  tendering  the 
bowl  to  Blake,  who  accepted  it  just  as  gravely. 

"I  thank  you,"  he  said,  very  seriously.  "It 

is  kind  of  you But,  do  you  know,  I  was 

speaking  rather  of  figurative  sugar." 

The  child  shook  her  head,  perplexedly. 

"I  don't  think  we  have  that  kind,"  she  ven- 
tured. "We  have  powdered  sugar,  and  loaf  sugar, 
and  gran — granulated,"  she  syllabized  it,  calling  it 
"gran-ti-lat-ed" — "and  we  have  pulverized  sugar, 
too.  But  I  don't  believe  we  have  fig — the  kind 
you  said I'm  sorry." 

He  smiled  a  little — a  smile  of  the  lips. 

"It  doesn't  matter,"  he  said,  slowly.  "Real- 
ly it  doesn't.  You  know  I  haven't  had  any  for  so 

long  that  I've  quite  forgotten  the  taste  of  it 

Where's  daddy  this  morning?" 

"Daddy  and  mother  dear  are  saying  good- 
bye to  Auntie,"  the  child  replied,  making  in  the 
oatmeal  before  her  a  miniature  Panama  Canal  and 
watching  the  thick  cream  trickle  slowly  from  the 
Atlantic  to  the  Pacific. 


90  A  FOOL  THERF  WAS 

Blake  turned  to  the  butler. 

"How  is  Mrs.  VanVorst  this  morning,  Rob- 
erts?" he  asked. 

"Still  very  ill,  sir,"  returned  the  butler. 
"Very  ill  indeed." 

"Not  dangerously?" 

"We  'opes  not,  sir.  But  she's  still  very  low, 
sir." 

Blake  turned  one  fist  in  the  palm  of  the 
other  hand. 

"Why,  I  though  from  the  wireless  that  Mr. 
Schuyler  sent  me  that  she  was  getting  along 
splendidly.  I " 

He  stopped,  abruptly.  There  had  entered 
the  breakfast  room  the  wife  of  John  Schuyler.  She 
saw  Blake  and  came  forward,  hand  outstreched, 
welcome  in  her  eyes.  She  had  come  to  be  very 
like  her  child — her  child  and  Schuyler's —  had  the 
daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair — she  was  like  her  child 
grown  up,  glorified  into  womanhood.  Her  hair 
was  the  same  gold-brown,  a  little  unruly,  cling- 
ing against  her  temples,  nestling  at  neck-nape. 
Her  eyes  were  the  same  deep  violet — perhaps  a 
little  darker — a  little  softer — a  little  less  wonder- 
ing; for  years  bring  knowledge,  and  when  one  be- 


A  FOREIGN  MISSION  91 

gins  to  know,  then  one  must  cease,  somewhat, 
to  wonder.  She  had  the  soft,  brown,  sun-kissed 
cheeks  of  her  child,  too,  rounded  and  smooth,  with 
the  red  blood  tinting  them  to  a  delicate  pink.  She 
had  the  finely-modelled,  cleanly-cut  nose,  and  the 
expressive,  sensitive  mouth  with  its  red  lips,  and 
white  teeth.  And  her  chin  was  both  beautiful  and 
firm. 

She  moved  lithely  across  the  room  to  where 
Blake  stood.  He  took  her  hand. 

"Tom,"  she  began,  cordially.  Her  voice  was 
low  and  deep,  and  very  soft.  "We're  so  glad  to  see 

you You  got  Jack's  message,  then?  We 

were  afraid  you  wouldn't.  " 

Blake  nodded. 

"Caught  it  off  Point  Judith,"  he  replied. 
"You  should  have  seen  us  'bout  ship  and  come 
spattering  down  the  Sound.  Those  blockade-run- 
ning persons  could  have  gained  points  from  u.c 
We  burned  the  bulwarks,  the  cargo  and  most  of 
my  cigars.  It  looks  as  though  we  did  so  wisely, 
too;  for  we  haven't  much  time  to  spare,  have  we?" 

"We  leave  in  half  an  hour,"  she  returned. 
"Sit  down,  Tom Jack  will  be  here  soon." 


92  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"But  what's  it  all  about?"  he  asked.  He  sank 
into  a  chair,  elbows  on  knees,  fingers  clasped. 

"Jack's  trip  abroad?" 

He  nodded. 

"It's  something  at  the  Court  of  St.  James. 
I  don't  know  exactly;  but  it's  very  imposing,  and 
important,  and  epoch-making.  Jack  spent  all  day 
yesterday  with  the  President  and  Secretary  of 
State." 

"Well,  well,  well!  That  certainly  is  im- 
mense !" 

She  was  standing  beside  the  table.  Slowly 
her  fingers  plucked  a  carnation  from  the  cluster 
before  her.  Violet  eyes  were  upon  it. 

"Is  it?"  she  asked,  slowly. 

"Isn't  it?"  he  queried,  surprised. 

She  paused  a  moment;  and  then,  swiftly: 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.     I " 

Blake  waited.  But  she  did  not  go  on.  At 
'ength  he  spoke: 

"How  long  will  he  be  gone?" 

"Maybe  two  months,"  she  returned 

"It  will  be  the  first  time  that  we've  been  apart 
for  more  than  a  day  or  two  since  we  were  mar- 
ried  I — I  suppose  that's  silly,  isn't  it? 


A  FOREIGN  MISSION  93 

"If  that's  silly,  it's  too  bad  anyone  ever  gets 
sensible/'  was  his  assuring  reply. 

She  had  risen.  Slowly  she  went  around  be- 
hind the  little  high  chair.  Leaning  lithely  over, 
she  laid  her  cheek  against  that  of  her  child,  soft, 
rounded  arms  pressing  her  close.  And  then  she 
looked  at  Blake,  eyes  to  eyes. 

"I  don't  like  it,  Tom,"  she  said,  very  slowly. 

"But,"  he  protested,  "it's  a  big  honor — a 
great  honor — an  appointment  like  this,  from  the 
President." 

"Yes,"  she  answered,  thoughtfully.  "It  is  a 
big  honor.  And  I  suppose  that  I  should  be  very, 

very  happy Of  course,  in  a  way,  I  am."  Then, 

suddenly :  "But  I'm  not.  I  don't  like  it,  Tom.  I 
try  to  like  it.  I  tell  myself  that  I  ought  to  like  it. 
And  yet  I  can't.  Happiness  is  more  than  honors; 
and  we  are  happy  here — as  happy  as  it  is  possible 
for  two  people"  her  eyes,  laden  of  the  mother  love, 
.fell  upon  the  child  that  was  hers,  "for  three 
people,'*  she  corrected,  "to  be.  We  have  every- 
thing we  need — everything  we  ought  to  want.  I'd 
rather  have  just  peace,  and  quiet  and  contentment, 
than  all  the  honors  there  are." 

"And  yet—" 


94  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"I  mustn't  stand  in  the  way  of  his  advance- 
ment, you  mean.  I  know  that;  and  I  haven't. . . . 
You  know  he  left  it  all  to  me;  and  I  said,  'Go.' 

It  hurt,  too,  Tom I  didn't  want  that  he 

should  go.    I  don't  know  why I "  she 

stopped.  The  child  had  finished  her  oatmeal. 
Lithely,  the  mother,  stooping,  lifted  her  from  the 
chair,  held  her  close  for  a  tiny  minute  and  then, 
kissing  her,  set  her  down  upon  the  floor. 

"Run  along,  dearie,"  she  directed.  "Tell 
Mawkins  to  get  you  dressed." 

She  watched  the  graceful,  pretty  child  until 
she  vanished  through  the  door.  Slowly  she  walked 
to  the  window.  Hands  clasped  behind  her  she 
stood,  gazing  across  the  sunlit  lawn — across  the 
dancing,  flashing  waters  of  the  Sound.  A  big, 
black  schooner,  a  mountain  of  bellying  whiteness 
superimposed  upon  a  tiny  streak  of  hull,  was  stand- 
ing off  for  the  Long  Island  shore.  Her  eyes  fol- 
lowed it. 

Blake,  lids  half  closed,  as  a  man  who  seeks 
within  the  denseness  of  masculine  brain  for  some- 
thing that  lieth  not  therein,  considered  for  a  long 
moment,  eyes  upon  the  perfect  figure  of  pertect 
womanhood  before  him.  At  length  he  spoke. 


A  FOREIGN  MISSION  95 

"It  doesn't  seem  to  me,"  he  began,  "that  it 
means  either  very  much  or  very  little."  He  went 
on,  more  lightly :  "Two  months  isn't  such  a  long 
time,  you  know,  after  all.  He'll  soon  be  back,  la- 
den with  honors.  And  then,  because  he  was  raised 
on  the  seacoast  and  doesn't  know  the  difference 
between  a  Lima  bean  and  a  bole  weevil,  they'll 
probably  make  him  Secretary  of  Agriculture." 

She  was  still  gazing  at  the  vanishing  sail;  she 
had  not  heard  his  words. 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  a  little,  watch- 
ing her.  At  length  he  sighed,  and  murmured  to 
himself: 

"To  him  that  hath,  shall  be  given  all  they  can 
take  a\vay  from  him  that  hathn't." 


96 


CHAPTER  THIRTEEN. 

THE  GOING. 

John  Schuyler  had  come  to  be  a  big  man 
and  a  broad  one — big  in  the  great  things  of  life 
that  sometimes  are  so  small,  big  in  the  small 
things  of  life  that  sometimes  are  so  great.  Broad 
of  mind,  as  well  as  broad  of  shoulder  he  was. 
Forty  years  of  age  now,  his  hair,  by  the  habit  of 
thought,  was  tinged  with  gray  at  the  temples;  yet 
skin  and  complexion  were  as  those  of  a  boy. 
Quick  in  movement,  agile,  alert,  thrilling  with 
vitality  and  virility,  his  pleasures  were,  as  they 
had  always  been,  the  pleasures  of  the  great  out- 
of-doors.  A  yachtsman,  his  big  yawl,  the  "Man- 
ana,"  was  known  in  every  club  port  from  Graves- 
end  to  Bar  Harbor.  He  motored.  He  rode. 
He  played  tennis,  and  golf,  and  squash,  and 
racquets.  He  was  an  expert  swimmer,  a  skilful 
fencer,  a  clever  boxer.  And,  more  wonderful  than 
97 


98  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

the  combination  of  these  things  was  the  fact  that 
he  found  time  away  from  his  work  to  do  them  all, 
and  to  enjoy  them  with  the  youthful,  contagious, 
effervescent  enthusiasm  of  a  man  of  half  his  age. 

It  showed  in  his  well-set-up,  well-poised 
body.  It  showed  in  the  expression  of  his  clear-cut 
bronzed  features.  It  showed  in  every  little  shift 
of  pose,  every  little  turn  of  his  well-shaped  ht>ad, 
as  he  stood,  leaning  gracefully  against  the  ledge 
of  the  bay  window,  talking  with  Blake;  for  Mrs. 
Schuyler  and  Muriel  had  gone  to  make  ready  for 
the  trip  to  the  city,  and  to  the  dock. 

"I  don't  like  to  leave  it,  Tom,"  he  said  slow- 
ly, his  eyes  roaming  over  the  bright,  little  room. 
"I  don't  like  to  leave  it  even  to  hobnob  with 
crowned  heads,  and  to  take  tea  with  dukes,  earls, 
princes  and  kings,  to  say  nothing  of  mere  lords. 
My  world  is  right  here;  and  it's  all  the  world  I 
want,  Tom.  It's  bounded  on  the  south  by  the 
sound,  on  the  north  by  the  property  of  the  munici- 
pality, on  the  east  and  west  by  somebody  else's 
worlds,  and  above  by  eternity." 

Blake  lighted  a  cigar. 

"Then  what  are  you  going  for?"  he  asked, 
practically. 


THE  GOING  99 

Schuyler  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"I  wonder,"  he  replied. 

"Want  me  to  tell  you?"  queried  the  other. 

"I  should  be  obliged,"  he  said  with  a  smile. 

"Well,"  began  Blake,  placing  finger  ends  to 
finger  ends,  judicially.  "In  the  first  place,  you're 
ambitious.  You  like  the  plaudits  of  the  populace. 
You  see  here  a  chance  to  get  about  a  million  per 
cent  on  your  investment.  Whereby  you  stick  two 
months  time  and  a  little  effort  into  the  proposition 
and  draw  down  a  position  that  means  sitting  be- 
side the  chief  executive  and  trying  to  look  as 
though  you  knew  what  he  was  talking  about. 
Also  a  chance  to  live  in  Washington  and  cut  figure 
eights  in  the  diplomatic  circles.  All  of  which  is 
perfectly  natural,  nothing  at  all  to  your  discredit, 
and  furthermore  shows  whence  come  the  few  good 
men,  who,  sticking  their  heels  in,  are  trying  to 
keep  the  country  from  going  to  the  demnition 
bow-wows.  Am  I  right?" 

Schuyler  watched  a  little  ring  of  blue  smoke 
rising  to  the  ceiling. 

"No,"  he  answered,  slowly,  "you're  wrong.  I 
care  nothing  for  the  plaudits  of  the  populace.  I'm 


too  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ambitious,  in  a  way;  but  when  that  way  requires 
me  to  leave  the  people — the  things — that  I  love, 
then  ambition  chameleonizes  and  I  become  am- 
bitious antithetically.  Furthermore,  I  loathe  the 
climate  of  Washington;  and  all  the  society  I  want, 
I  can  find  right  in  my  home — with  the  exception 
of  yourself." 

"Which  is  not  so  much  of  an  exception,  after 
all,"  commented  Blake;  "because,  when  it  comes 
to  sticking  around,  I'm  the  original  young  Mr. 
Glue." 

"You  know,  Tom,"  went  on  Schuyler,  "1 
•don't  like  to  take  any  chances  with  a  happiness 

such  as  mine I  wonder,  sometimes,  if  I 

really  know  how  happy  I  am.  One  can  get  used 
to  happiness,  you  know,  just  as  to  other  things — 
except  unhappiness." 

"Hum,"  snorted  Blake.  "I've  got  used  to 
that,  even.  Dad-burn  it  all,  nothing  ever  goes 
right  with  me — except  money;  and  that's  no  good 
without  the  rest.  Money  is  merely  an  agreeable 
accessory.  To  have  money  and  nothing  with  it 
is  like  having  an  olive  and  no  cocktail  to  put  it  in. 
If  I  eat  what  I  like,  I  get  sick.  I'm  always  either 
forty  pounds  too  heavy  or  twenty  pounds  too  light. 


THE  GOING  101 

I'm  continually  dieting  or  training  and  wonder- 
ing why  in  Sam  Hill  I'm  doing  either.  I  have  to 
live  alone — to  spend  my  evening  at  theatres  or 
clubs — I  am  a  man  who  would  willingly  give  up 
all  his  clubs  for  one  large  pair  of  pink  carpet  slip- 
pers, and  the  theatres  for  a  corpulent,  aristocratic 
Maltese  cat,  with  a  baritone  purr." 

Schuyler,  immersed  in  his  own  thoughts* 
had  not  been  listening. 

Blake  eyed  him,  whimsically. 

"Ain't  I  the  gabby  thing,  though?"  he 
remarked,  at  length.  And  then : 

"A  couple  of  million  dollars  for  your 
thoughts,  sweet  chuck." 

"I  was  thinking  how  near  I  came  to  turn- 
ing this  all  down — and  how  I'm  sort  of  sorry  that 
I  didn't." 

"Nell's  better,  isn't  she?"  queried  Blake, 
suddenly. 

"Better,  yes;  but  not  out  of  danger.    Why?" 

"Why,"  returned  Blake,  "it  just  occurred  to 
me — see  here,  old  man,  I've  nothing  much  to  do. 
Can't  I  stick  around  here?  And  then  you  can- 
take  Kate  and  Muriel  with  you." 

"That's  good  of  you,  Tom,"  said  Schuyler, 


102  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

smiling  a  little.  "But  a  bachelor  around  a  sick 
room  is  of  about  as  much  use  as  an  elephant  at 

a  pink  tea No,  Kate  and  I  have  talked  it 

all  over,  and,  under  the  conditions,  she  has  de- 
cided to  stay  at  home.  It'll  be  mighty  hard, 

though — mighty  hard It  must  be  nearly 

time  to  leave." 

Blake  looked  at  his  watch. 

"Nine  fifty,"  he  said.  "What  time  does  the 
train  go?" 

Schuyler  did  not  answer;  for  just  then  there 
entered  the  room  a  tall,  clean-cut  young  fellow  of 
thirty,  dressed  with  quiet  immaculacy.  It  was 
Parks,  John  Schuyler's  secretary. 

To  him  Schuyler  turned. 

"Is  everything  ready,  Parks  ?"  he  asked. 

"Everything,"  was  the  reply.  "And  the  car 
is  waiting." 

"Mrs.  Schuyler?" 

"Is  in  the  hall." 

"You  have  the  documents  that  we  selected  ?" 

"Here,  sir."  Parks  touched  with  the  fingers 
of  his  right  hand  the  little  satchel  of  black  seal 
that  he  carried  beneath  his  left  arm. 

"How  much  time  have  we?" 


THE  GOING  103 

"We  should  leave  within  a  very  few  minutes 
now." 

"Very  well.     We'll  be  right  there." 

As  Parks  left  the  room,  Blake  turned  to 
his  friend. 

"Jack,"  he  exclaimed,  "it  makes  me  sore 
every  time  I  look  at  you.  Why  in  thunder  can't  I 
get  in  once  in  a  while?  Nothing  would  suit  me 
better  than  to  go  over  and  buy  the  king  a  glass  of 
half  and  half  and  mix  around  with  the  diplomats 
and  settle  the  affairs  of  nations.  But  they  wouldn't 
let  me  send  cucumber  seeds  to  the  mattress-faced 
constituency  of  Skaneateles  county  if  I  should' 
offer  to  pay  for  the  job.  I've  got  everything  It 
don't  want — except  the  measles — and  everything 
I  do  want,  I  can't  get.  I  want  a  home.  What 
have  I?  A  box  stall  with  nobody  in  it  but  a  man 
to  curry  me;  and  he's  curried  me  so  often  that 
he's  lost  all  respect  for  me.  I  want  to  stop  being 
merely  ornamental  and  become  useful;  but  when  I 
say  so,  everyone  hands  me  the  jocose  and  jibing 
jeer  and  proceeds  to  lock  up  anything  that  seems 
to  have  any  relation  whatsoever  to  industry,  com- 
merce, or  utility  of  any  kind.  And  the  best  I  can 
get  is  the  festive  roof  garden,  the  broad  speed- 


104  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

way,  and  the  bounding  wave.  I  wish  I  were  run- 
ning this  universe.  I  ain't  mentioning  no  names, 
but  there's  a  certain  svelte  party  on  my  left,  whose 
initials  are  J.  S.,  who  wouldn't  have  a  monopoly 
on  all  the  good  things  in  this  world." 

Schuyler,  filling  his  cigar  case  from  a  silver 
humidor  on  the  sideboard,  laughed. 

"There's  nothing  the  matter  with  you, 
Tom,"  he  said,  assuringly,  "except  that  you  have 
too  much  time  and  too  much  money.  Stop  your 
kicking." 

Blake  grinned. 

"Let  me  rave  if  I  want  to,"  he  requested. 
"Let  me  have  a  good  time.  You  know  as  well 
as  I  do  that  I  don't  mean  it,  and  you  know  that 
I'm  more  glad  for  your  success  and  happiness  and 
prosperity  than  I  would  be  for  my  own;  and  that's 
being  some  glad."  He  crossed  to  where  Schuyler 
stood  and  placed  his  arm  about  his  shoulders,  and 
continued,  "good  old  Jack.  Bully  for  you.  You 
deserve  everything  that  you  have  ever  won.  I'd 
say  I  loved  you  like  a  brother  if  it  weren't  for 
the  fact  that  I  never  had  a  brother  yet  that  I  could 
sit  through  a  meal  with  without  wanting  to  hit 
him  under  the  ear  with  the  side-board." 


•'BYE.  LITTLE  SWEETHEART  "—}\ige  ic? 


THE  GOING  105 

The  room  had  become  suddenly  dark.  Came 
almost  without  the  warning  of  preliminary  rumble 
—almost  without  the  precursor  of  sullen  flashing 
— a  great  peal  of  heavy  thunder.  Schuyler  turned. 
Blake  sprang  to  his  feet. 

Through  the  bow  window,  the  lawn  lay  dun 
and  dark.  Beyond,  the  Sound,  flat  and  heavy, 
seemed  as  gray  oil.  The  Long  Island  shore  had 
been  swallowed  in  the  gloom.  Above  all  was  a 
great,  black  cloud,  rimmed  of  silver  and  of  gold, 
a  low  cloud,  thick  and  threatening.  And  yet  to 
one  side  and  the  other — in  fact  save  right  in  its 
ominous  path,  one  could  see  the  sunlight  on 
water  and  on  land. 

Then  came  the  rain,  and  the  wind,  and  with 
them  incessant  flashings,  incessant  bellowings, 
wild  protests  of  the  outraged  God  of  storms.  Trees 
bent  and  groaned.  Flowers,  torn  from  their 
tender  stalks,  lay  prostrate  in  puling  puddles.  And 
quick-born  waves  lashed  themselves  spitefully 
against  the  pier  and  breakwater  down  beyond  the 
lawn,  unseen  in  the  swirling,  screaming  wildness 
of  it  all. 

Upon  one  another  Schuyler  and  Blake 
turned  wondering,  amazed  eyes.  In  its  sudden- 


106  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ness,  the  storm  was  unbelievable.  They  stood, 
side  by  side,  gazing  out  into  the  storm. 

Suddenly,  into  the  hand  of  Schuyler  stole 
tiny,  frightened  fingers.  It  was  Muriel. 

"I'm  frightened,  daddy  dear,"  she  cried. 

Schuyler  gathered  her  into  his  arms. 

"Don't  be  frightened,  little  sweetheart,"  he 
said,  soothingly.  "It's  just  a  summer  storm .... 
Where's  mother?" 

"Here,  Jack."  Her  voice  came  from  at  his 
very  side.  "Isn't  it  terrible!  We  can't  go  in 
this." 

Holding  his  child  close  against  his  breast, 
her  cheeks  against  his,  her  gold-brown  hair  mix- 
ing with  the  gray  of  his  temples,  he  said : 

"Not  you  and  Muriel,  of  course.  But  I  must. 
It  won't  last  long;  you  and  Tom  can  come  on  a 
later  train.  Parks  can  come  with  you.  There'll 
be  plenty  of  time.  It's  only  that  I  have  urgent 
business  that  I  must  attend  to  before  sailing." 

In  a  swirl  of  wind  and  rain,  Parks  stepped 
into  the  room,  and  addressing  Schuyler,  said : 

"We  should  be  starting,  sir." 

Schuyler  nodded.  The  butler  was  holding 
his  coat  in  readiness.  He  thrust  his  arms  with- 


THE  GOING  107 

in  the  sleeves  and,  with  a  shrug  of  broad  shoulders, 
stood  prepared  for  departure. 

Lifting  the  little  girl  that  was  his  own,  and 
of  the  woman  he  loved,  he  held  her  for  a  brief  mo- 
ment tight  to  his  breast.  In  her  little  ear  he 
whispered : 

"Bye,  little  sweetheart." 

She  clung  to  him,  little  hands  about  his 

neck He  set  her  down  again  upon  the 

floor.  She  ran  to  Blake,  waiting. 

The  deep  lids  of  Kathryn  were  half  veiling 
the  violet  eyes — eyes  moist,  and  very  soft.  There 
was  a  little  tremor  of  the  sensitive  lips.  Schuyler 
drew  her  to  him,  so  that  she  faced  him,  and 
whispered : 

"Au  revoir,  big  sweetheart Don't  you 

dare  to  cry I  know  how  it  hurts ;  but  be 

a  brave  little  woman I'll  make  my  stay  just 

as  short  as  possible." 

"You'll  cable?"  she  asked,  tremulously. 

"Cable  ?"  he  repeated.  "I'll  keep  that  wire- 
less snapping  all  the  way  across Now  let  me 

see  you  smile." 

She  tried.  It  was  a  wan,  sad  little  smile — 
a  smile  that  was  close  of  kin  to  a  tear.  She  clung 


io8  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

to  him  for  a  moment;  then  her  fingers  loosened 
their  hold;  she  stepped  back,  white  teeth  holding 
nether  lip.  It  was  bitterly  hard. 

He  looked;  and  with  more  understanding 
than  many  a  man  might  have,  turned  swiftly. 

Parks  stepped  forward. 

"Shan't  I  go  with  you?"  he  asked. 

Schuyler  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  returned.  "Come  with  Mrs. 
Schuyler — meet  me  at  the  boat.  I'm  going 
alone." 

He  thrust  open  the  door.  Came  a  wail  of 
wind,  a  swirl  of  rain;  and  then,  as  he  crossed  the 
threshold,  the  very  heaven  itself  seemed  to  be 
reft  apart  with  a  great,  wild  flash  of  lightning — 
the  roar  of  the  thunder  was  appalling. 

Schuyler  started  back.     He  forced  a  laugh. 

"Were  I  a  superstitious  man,"  he  remarked, 
"I  might  take  that  for  an  omen." 

And  then  he  was  gone. 


log 


CHAPTER  FOURTEEN. 

YOUNG  PARMALEE AND  THE  WOMAN. 

He  came  slinking  down  the  deck  of  the  liner, 
furtive  of  eye,  uneven  of  tread.  A  young  man 
he  was — and  yet  old;  for  while  his  body  told  of 
youth,  his  face  bespoke  age — the  unnatural  forced 
age — the  hot-housed  growth  of  they  who  live  in 
the  froth  of  life — in  the  froth  that  it  is  hard  to 
tell  from  the  scum. 

He  was  tall,  and  well-set-up.  His  clothes 
hung  well  about  his  body;  they  were  of  fine  texture 
and  make,  yet  unpressed,  uncared  for.  He  had 
been  handsome;  but  he  was  no  longer;  for  the 
eyes  looked  forth  from  hollows  in  his  face.  Hrs 
cheeks  were  sunken.  His  lips  were  leaden.  He 
was  unshaven,  ungroomed,  unkempt. 

Looking  nervously,  this  way  and  that,  he 
made  his  way  among  the  jostling  throngs  to  one 
of  the  passages.  Searching  with  sunken  eyes  for 
no 


FARM  ALEE— AND  THE  WOMAN    in 

a  numbered  door,  he  knocked  upon  it  with  the 
knuckles  of  his  left  hand;  his  right  rested  at  his 
side,  covered  with  a  handkerchief  of  white  silk .... 
He  knocked;  and  stepped  back,  quickly.  There 
was  no  answer;  the  door  remained  shut.  He 
stepped  forward  again,  thrusting  the  door  wride 
open.  The  stateroom  was  empty.  He  turned. 
Out  upon  the  deck  he  strode;  then,  starting  back, 
he  concealed  himself  in  the  passageway  that  he 
had  just  left. 

Coming  down  the  deck  was  a  woman,  a  wom- 
an darkly  beautiful,  tall,  lithe,  sinuous.  Great 
masses  of  dead  black  hair  were  coiled  about  her 
head.  Her  cheeks  were  white;  her  lips  very  red. 
Eyes  heavy  lidded  looked  out  in  cold,  inscrutable 
hauteur  upon  the  confusion  about  her.  She  wore 
a  gown  that  clung  to  her  perfectly-modelled  figure 
• — that  seemed  almost  a  part  of  her  being.  She 
carried,  in  her  left  arm,  a  great  cluster  of  crimson 
roses. 

Down  the  deck  she  came,  slowly,  as  a  queen 
going  to  her  throne.  She  turned 

The  man  hiding  in  the  passageway  con- 
fronted her.  His  eyes  were  burning  as  of  a  fever; 


H2  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

his  whole  body  shook She  remained  calm, 

cold,  unmoved. 

At  length,  the  woman  spoke,  half  smiling: 

"You  ? I  thought  that  we  were 

through." 

His  voice  was  tense,  strained,  unnaturally 
pitched.  The  words  came  between  clenched  teeth. 

"You  did,  eh?  You  thought  you'd  throw 
me  over,  as  you  did  Rogers,  and  Van  Dam, 

and  the  rest  of  them But  it  won't  work — • 

you  Vampire!" 

Swiftly,  he  tore  from  his  right  hand  the 
handkerchief  that  covered  it.  There  was  in  it  a 
revolver.  The  bright  mouth  of  the  weapon 
sprang  to  the  white  forehead  of  The  Woman. 

Yet  she  did  not  start — she  made  no  sound, 
no  movement.  The  smile  still  dwelt  upon  her 
lips.  It  was  only  in  the  eyes  that  a  difference 
came — in  the  black,  inscrutable  eyes.  They 
gleamed  now,  heavy-lidded  as  before.  Their  gaze 
was  fixed  straight  into  the  sunken,  hate-lit  eyes 
of  the  man  before  her,  a  man  who,  but  for  her, 
might  still  have  been  a  boy.  She  bent  forward 

a  little Her  forehead,  between  the  eyes,  was 

now  touching  the  bright  muzzle  of  the  weapon. 


PARMALEE— AND  THE  WOMAN    113 

The  finger  on  the  trigger  trembled — trembled 
but  did  not  pull. 

Came  slowly,  sibillantly,  from  between  the 
smiling  red  lips : 

"Kiss  me,  My  Fool!" 

Her  eyes  still  fixed  him The  hand 

holding  the  revolver  trembled  more  violently. 
Slowly  the  mouth  of  the  weapon  sank  to  lips — to 

chin — to  breast It  hovered  there  a  moment, 

just  over  the  heart — the  finger  twitched  a  little — 
twitched  but  did  not  pull.  It  was  a  finger  gov- 
erned by  a  vanished  will  in  a  shrivelled  brain. 

Then,  suddenly,  the  revolver  leaped — the 
finger  pulled.  With  a  shrill  screech  of  hopeless, 
hideous  imprecation,  a  shriek  that  died  still-born, 
the  bullet  pierced  flesh  and  bone  and  brain;  and 
that  which  had  been  a  man  that  should  have  been 
a  boy,  lurched  drunkenly  and  lay  a  crumpled 
nothing  upon  the  deck.  There  was  blood  upon 
the  deck — beside  the  hem  of  the  crimson  gown, 
near  to  the  crimson  heel  of  her  shoe.  And  the 
gown  was  caught  beneath  the  body  of  the  boy  that 
was. 

She  looked  down  upon  him.  The  smile  not 
even  yet  had  left  her  lips.  With  a  lithe  move- 


ii4  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ment,  infinitely  graceful,  she  drew  away,  disen- 
gaging the  hem  of  her  crimson  garment A 

crimson  petal  from  the  great  cluster  in  her  arms 
fell  upon  it,  to  lie  upon  the  hollow  whiteness  of 
the  upturned  cheek And  that  was  all. 

A  man — a  man  that  should  have  been  a  boy 
— was  gone Hurrying,  horror-ridden  pas- 
sengers found  him  there,  alone.  The  doctor  came, 
and  stewards,  and  the  captain.  They  lifted  him, 
and  bore  him  away.  Of  those  who  live  in  the 
froth  of  things — the  froth  that  is  often  the  scum 
— there  were  several.  One  of  these  knew  him. 

"It's  Young  Parmalee,"  he  informed  them. 

And  that  was  all  he  knew;  that,  and  possibly 
some  other  things  that  are  little.  But  of  the  great 
things,  he  knew  nothing.  For  of  these  grea* 
things,  God  has  told  us  but  little. 


CHAPTER  FIFTEEN. 

A  WARNING. 

The  storm  that  had  come  hissing  across  the 
Sound  did  not  last  long.  Its  very  fierceness,  it 
seemed,  was  its  own  undoing.  Its  frenzy 
soon  passed.  And  anon  the  sun  shone;  the  droop- 
ing flowers  raised  to  it  pitiful,  bedraggled  little 
faces;  and  from  the  fields,  rose  the  burden  of 
incense,  moist,  fragrant  giving  wet  thanks  of  its 
coming  and  of  its  going. 

Schuyler's  farewells  had  been  but  tentative. 
It  had  been  understood  that,  should  the  storm 
abate,  Mrs.  Schuyler,  Muriel  and  Blake  would 
follow  on  the  next  train;  for  he  himself  was  forced 
by  the  exigency  of  his  mission  to  reach  the  city 
at  least  two  hours  before  sailing  time. 

The  car,  returning  from  the  trip  to  the  de- 
pot, was  again  called  into  service.    Parks,  as  well, 
had  waited,  and  went  with  them. 
116 


A  WARNING  117 

Reaching  the  city,  Blake's  machine,  for 
which  he  had  telephoned  from  Larchmont,  was 
waiting;  and  in  this  they  made  the  journey 
through  the  traffic-thronged  New  York  streets,  to 
the  dock;  a  route  that  leads  one  from  wealth  to 
poverty,  from  respectability  to  license,  from  well- 
doing to  ill-doing,  and  through  all  that  lies  be- 
tween. 

The  dock,  beside  which  lay  tugging  at  her 
cables  the  huge  liner,  was  confusion  thrice  con- 
fused. Jolting  cabs,  rattling  taxis,  smooth-run- 
ning private  cars,  drays  and  vans,  added  to  the 
tumult  caused  by  the  hundred — the  thousands — of 
hurrying,  scurrying  humanity.  Came  the  calls  of 
excited  passengers,  the  rumbling  of  trucks,  the 
Babel-like  voices  of  emigrants;  and,  beyond,  the 
noises  of  the  Great  River. 

Alighting  from  the  car  at  the  gangway, 
they  boarded  the  ship,  with  its  crowded  decks. 
Schuyler's  stateroom  was  aft,  in  the  center  of  the 
ship.  It  lay  the  first  door  to  the  right,  as  one 
enters  the  narrow  passageway.  To  it  the  little 
party  made  its  way. 

The  door  of  the  room  opposite  was  ajar. 
Blake  noticed  that  there  lay  therein  a  great  mass 


n8  A  FOOL  TH-ERE  WAS 

of  crimson  roses;  scattered  amid  the  toilet  ar- 
ticles and  accessories  of  a  woman.  Passing 
through  the  crowds  of  the  deck,  he  had  heard,  al- 
so, The  Man  Who  Knew  telling  another  man,  who 
did  not  know  of  Young  Parmalee.  It  had  been 
but  a  word.  But  it  had  been  a  word  that  had 
found  fructification  and  meaning  in  the  sight  of 
a  deck  steward,  with  a  bucket,  mopping  up  some- 
thing from  the  deck,  just  outside  the  little  pas- 
sageway. 

Kathryn  and  Muriel,  seen  safely  to  the  room 
that  Schuyler  was  to  occupy,  Blake  returned  and 
made  his  way  out  upon  the  deck.  He  stood  for 
a  moment  by  the  steward,  watching  him. 

Then  very  quietly  inquired: 

"Where  did  it  happen,  Steward?" 

The  steward,  wringing  out  the  mop  into  the 
(dark  water  of  his  bucket,  looked  up.  There 
were  beads  of  sweat  upon  his  bronzed,  wrinkled 
'brow.  Yet  the  day  was  not  warm. 

"Wot,  sir?"  he  queried. 

"Where  did  it  happen?" 

"Wot  happen  sir?" 

"Young  Parmalee's  suicide."  Blake  spoke 
quietly,  calmly. 


A  WARNING  119 

The  steward's  eyes  shifted. 

"Suicide,  sir?"  he  said.  "Don't  know 
nothink  about  it,  gov'ner." 

Blake  pointed  to  the  spot  upon  the  deck. 

"What's  that,  then?"  he  demanded. 

The  steward  moved,  uneasily. 

"A  spot  I  just  be'n  a-cleanin'  of,  gov'ner." 

Blake  pointed  to  the  bucket. 

"And  that?"  he  persisted. 

"Water,  sir." 

"And ?" 

The  steward  slowly  drew  the  back  of  his 
hand  across  dry  lips.  And  then,  in  a  swift  rush 
of  strangled  words: 

"Blood,  gov'ner.  Blood Only  a  boy 

he  was,  sir,  and  she  looked  down  on  him,  laying 
there  with  his  brains  spattered  on  the  deck  and 

she  laughed,  sir God,  sir !  She  laughed 

"  He  struggled  to  his  feet  and  pulled  his 

forelock.  He  said  in  altered  tones :  "Beg  pardon, 
sir.  But  a  man  can't  be  a  blime  machine  all  the 

sir." 

There  came  a  call  from  the  state-room. 

"Get  that  bucket  away  from  here.    Quick !" 


120  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

And  Blake  turned  to  meet  the  wife  and  child  of 
his  friend,  as  they  came  from  the  state-room. 

"Oh,  I  do  hope  Jack  won't  be  late,"  Kath- 
ryn  remarked,  scanning  the  decks. 

Blake  standing  between  her  and  the  steward, 
returned  with  forced  lightness : 

"Oh,  he  has  plenty  of  time.  Half  an  hour 
at  least.  Why,  once  I  lost  fifty  thousand  in  the 
market,  broke  my  steering  gear  running  over  a 
fat  policeman,  was  arrested,  taken  to  court  and 
bailed  out  and  all  within  twenty  minutes.  Jack's 
got  time  to  squander." 

There  was  sadness  in  the  violet  eyes. 

"It  will  be  very  lonely  when  he's  gone — very 
lonely,"  she  mused,  slowly. 

"Well,  it  will  be  as  lonely  for  him  as  it  will 
for  you,"  Blake  returned;  "which  is  a  doubtful 
consolation,  but  one  that  most  women  don't 
have." 

Muriel  had  wandered  to  the  rail. 

"Oh,  I  see  him!"  she  cried,  suddenly. 

"There  he  is!  Daddy!  Daddy,  dear! He's 

right  there  on  the  gangway — right  Behind  that 
fat  lady — the  one  with  the  red  nose-  I'm  going 
to  meet  him." 


A  WARNING  121 

Sturdy  little  legs  started  to  follow  the  sum- 
mons of  impulsive  little  brain.  But  her  mother 
detained  her. 

"No,  dearie,"  she  objected.  "You'll  get  lost. 
He'll  be  here  in  a  moment,  now." 

"Not  unless  he  can  get  by  that  lady,"  pro- 
tested the  child.  "He's — he's " 

"Pocketed  is  the  word  you  want,  Muriel," 
assisted  Blake.  He  was  looking  in  the  direction 
which  the  child  had  indicated.  Suddenly,  he  ex- 
claimed : 

"I  see  him  now.  He  doesn't  see  us,  though. 
Possibly  he  doesn't  know  where  his  stateroom  is. 
These  boats  are  very  confusing.  I'll  go  fetch  him." 

Blake  disappeared  in  the  throngs  upon  the 
deck.  Muriel  turned  to  her  mother. 

"Mother,"  she  implored. 

"Yes,  dear?" 

"Why  can't  we  go,  too,  mother  dear?" 

"We  must  stay  to  care  for  Aunt  Elinor." 

"But  she  has  a  doctor  and  two  nurses  now," 
protested  the  child. 

"But,"  returned  her  mother,  smiling,  "that 
isn't  like  one's  own  family." 


122  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

The  child  was  for  a  moment  sunk  deep  in 
thought  most  serious. 

"But  why  must  both  of  us  stay?"  she  asked, 
at  length.  Then,  suddenly: 

"Mother,  dear!" 

"Yes  little  sweetheart?" 

"I'll  match  you  to  see  which  one  of  us  goes!" 

Mrs.  Schuyler,  surprised,  smiled. 

"Why,  daughter!  Wherever  did  you  learn 
that?" 

"I  heard  Mr.  Tom  and  daddy  the  other 
night.  They  were  sitting  in  the  library,  and  Mr. 
Tom  said,  'I'll  match  you  to  see  who  gets  the 
cigars/  So,  mother  dear,  I  thought  that  you  and 
I  mighf  match  one  another  to  see  which  of  us 
could  go  with  daddy." 

Kathryn  placed  an  arm  about  her,  drawing 
her  to  her. 

"Do  you  want  to  go  with  daddy — and  leave 
mother?"  she  asked. 

The  child  shook  her  head,  doubtfully. 

"No,"  she  said,  "not  exactly I  want 

to  go  with  daddy.  I  love  daddy.  But  I  want  to 

stay  with  you,  too,  mother  dear Mother 

dear,"  she  added  suddenly. 


A  WARNING  123 

"Yes,  sweetheart?" 

"Wouldn't  it  be  nice  if  we  were  both  twins  I 
Then  half  of  us  could  go  with  daddy,  and  the 
(other  half  of  us  stay  at  home  with  Aunt  Elinor." 


124 


CHAPTER  SIXTEEN. 

THE  BEGINNING. 

Schuyler  came  hurrying  down  the  deck, 
Blake  and  Parks  close  behind.  There  was  on  his 
face  the  smile  of  great  gladness.  He  placed  one 
strong  arm  about  his  wife,  the  other  about  his 
child. 

"I've  some  bully  news  for  you,  Kate,  dear! 
The  President  has  so  arranged  that  I  can  com- 
plete my  work  and  get  back  to  you  in  less  than 
a  month.  Isn't  that  splendid?  Just  one  little 
month  and  I'll  be  back  again  with  you  and  baby." 

The  child  raised  her  head  in  protest. 

"But  I'm  not  a  baby,  now.  I'm  six  years 
old.  Mother  has  to  pay  full  fare  for  me  on  the 
cars.  Don't  you,  mother?" 

Schuyler  picked  her  up  from  the  deck,  toss- 
ing her  in  the  air. 

"No  matter  what  you  may  be  to  conductors, 
125 


126  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

you'll  always  be  baby  to  daddy,  you  little  darling," 
he  said,  brightly.  Then,  turning  to  Blake,  with 
lightness  born  of  great  earnestness: 

"Take  good  care  of  them  while  I'm  gone, 
won't  you,  old  man.  By  Jove,  I'd  like  to  chuck  it 
all,  even  at  the  last  minute  as  it  is,  and  stay  at 
home " 

Facing  his  wife,  child  and  friend,  his  eyes 
were  up  the  broad  deck.  Came  toward  him  The 
Woman — The  Woman  known  of  The  Man  Who* 
Knew,  and  of  Young  Parmalee.  Schuyler's  voice 
died  in  his  throat.  Her  eyes  were  upon  him.  His 
eyes  were  upon  her.  She  made  no  movement. 
She  paused  not  in  her  indolent,  sinuous  walk.  Her 
eyes  were  upon  him;  and  that  was  all — dark  eyes, 
glowing,  inscrutable,  beautiful  with  the  beauty 

that  was  hers.  And  his  eyes  were  on  hers 

She  turned  up  the  narrow  passageway  in  which 

lay  Schuyler's  stateroom Blake  saw,  too. 

He  was  not  of  those  who  live  in  the  froth  of 
things — that  froth  of  things  that  is  the  scum.  But 
he  was  of  the  world;  and  they  who  are  of  the 
world  have  knowledge  of  all  that  that  world  con- 
tains— of  all,  that  is,  that  it  is  for  such  as  they 
to  know. 


THE  BEGINNING  127 

Kathryn  looked  up,  at  length,  anxiously. 
Schuyler  was  never  abstracted.  She  prompted : 

"You  were  saying,  Jack,  dear " 

Schuyler  drew  his  hand,  palm  out,  across  his 
forehead. 

"Why — oh,  yes,"  he  floundered,  trying  to 
marshal  his  scattered  thoughts.  "I  was  saying 

• "  He  appealed  to  Blake,  half-helplessly,  half- 

whimsically.  "By  Jove,  that's  strange.  What  was 
I  saying,  Tom?" 

Blake  replied,  shortly: 

"You  were  asking  me  to  take  good  care  of 
them." 

Schuyler  nodded. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  assented.  And  then;  "I  don't 

understand.  I but  you  will  take  good  care 

of  them,  won't  you,  old  man?  They're  all  I  have; 
and  more,  they're  all  I  want.  Guard  them,  Tom, 
for  me  as  though  they  were  your  own." 

Waiting  to  take  farewell  of  those  one  loves 
is  indeed  a  sweetness  tinged  with  bitterness.  And 
if  one  loves  very,  very  much,  it  is  sometimes  a  bit- 
terness tinged  with  sweetness.  Kathryn,  lower 
lip  clenched  between  white  teeth,  herself  unhappy 


128  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

would  have  kept  that  unhappiness  as  far  as  pos- 
sible hers  alone.  There  were  those  on  board  that 
she  knew.  To  them  she  went;  for  there  was  still, 
since  time  was  short,  too  much  of  it.  Muriel  she 
took  with  her. 

Schuyler,  in  his  eyes  all  the  virile  love  that 
such  as  he  feel  for  theirs,  watched  her  vanish  amid 
the  throngs.  Then,  sauntering  to  the  rail,  leaned 
against  it  ..*...  There  came  into  his  eyes  a  look 
of  abstraction,  of  aberration,  of  puzzlement.  Blake 
stood  watching  him — stood  for  a  long  time,  silent, 

unmoving At  length  he  moved  to  Schuy- 

ler's  side. 

"Old  man,"  he  said,  very  slowly,  very  quiet- 
ly, very  earnestly;  "old  man,  what's  up?" 

Schuyler  turned,  quickly 

"What's  up?"  he  repeated.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?" 

Blake  said,  still  slowly: 

"There's  something  happened  to  you." 

"Happened,"  cried  Schuyler.  "Something 
happened  ?"  He  laughed.  "What  could  have  hap- 
pened?" 

"Damned  if  I  know.  But  something  has. 
I've  got  a  hunch." 


THE  BEGINNING  129 

Schuyler  answered,  lightly : 

"Well,  you'd  better  take  it  to  a  doctor  and 
have  it  diagnosed."  He  half  turned.  "It's  only 
my  natural  nervousness  at  leaving  Kathryn  and 
Muriel — and  the  importance  of  my  mission.  By 
the  way,"  he  asked,  abruptly,  "what  was  that 
crowd  doing  on  the  dock  as  I  came  up?" 

Blake,   selecting  a  cigarette,  lighted  it. 

"Suicide,"  he  said,  curtly. 

Schuyler  started. 

"You  say  it  mighty  cold-bloodedly,"  he  as- 
serted. "Where  did  it  happen?" 

"Here,  I  believe.  Almost  where  we  are 
standing." 

"Good  God!    Who  was  it?" 

"Young  chap,  named  Parmalee." 

"What?  The  boy  who's  been  in  the  papers 
so  much  lately — who  disgraced  himself,  and  his 
people,  for  a  woman?" 

Blake  nodded,  and  continued: 

"Did  you  happen  to  notice  the  woman  who 
passed  a  moment  ago? — the  one  carrying  the  red 
roses?" 

Schuyler  bent  his  head. 


1 30  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"I  noticed  her,"  he  replied,  slowly.  "What 
of  her?" 

"The  woman.' 

"You  don't  mean  Parmalee ?" 

"Yes,  I  do." 

""Because  his  love  was  not  returned?" 

""Because,"  replied  Blake,  smiling  mirthlessly 

"it  was  returned Did  you  ever  read  thati 

thing  of  Kipling's,  The  Vampire?" 

"Why,  yes,  of  course,"  returned  Schuyler. 
"Almost  everyone's  read  that." 

"Do  you  remember  how  it  goes?"  persisted 
Blake. 

Schuyler  thought  a  moment.  Then,  slowly, 
he  recited: 

"A  fool  there  was,  and  he  made  his  prayer, 
(Even  as  you  and  I) 

To  a  rag  and  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair. 

We  called  her  the  woman  who  did  not  care. 

But  the  fool,  he  called  her  his  Lady  Fair—" 

He  broke  off,  abruptly.  "A  weird  thing,"  he 
said,  as  though  to  himself.  "I  never  thought 

much  about  what  it  meant  before "  He 

turned,  abruptly.  "Why  did  you  ask  me  if  I'd  read 
it?"  he  demanded. 


THE  BEGINNING  131 

"Well,"  said  Blake,  flicking  the  ashes  from 
his  cigarette,  "there's  the  fool,"  he  nodded  to- 
ward the  drying  spot  upon  the  deck.  "And  there/* 
he  indicated,  with  a  backward  toss  of  his  well- 
shaped  head,  the  corridor  down  which  had  passed 
the  woman,  "is  his  lady  fair.  I've  even  heard,'* 
he  went  on,  "that  she  used  to  call  him  her  'fool/ 
quoting  the  poem.  Pretty  little  conceit,  eh?"  His 
jaw,  firm,  square,  set  tight.  Then,  with  a  touch 
of  deeper  feeling.  "She  murdered  that  boy  just 
as  surely  as  if  she  had  cut  his  throat;  and  the 
worst  of  it  is  that  she  can't  be  held  legally  guilty 

— morally,  yes,  guilty  as"  sin;  but  legally " 

He  shook  his  head.  "The  laws  that  man  makes 
for  mankind  are  a  joke." 

"As  sometimes  seem/'  added  Schuyler,  slow- 
ly, "the  laws  that  God  makes  for  mankind , 

If  what  you  say  about  that  woman  be  true,  she 
ought  to  be  taken  by  the  hair  of  the  head  and 
dragged  through  the  hell  she  has  built  for  others." 
His  brows  were  knitted;  he  was  gazing  with  un- 
seeing eyes  upon  the  bustle  and  confusion  of  the 
dock  below. 

Blake,  eyeing  him,  remarked  quietly,  but  in 
tones  more  light: 


132  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"However,  that's  not  your  job,  nor  mine, 
thank  God.  It  would  be  an  eminently  suitable 
recreation  for  a  debonair  young  man  with  a  shat- 
tered reputation,  a  cast  iron  stomach,  several  mil- 
lions of  dollars  and  no  objections  to  staying  up 
by  the  year."  He  turned  a  little,  toward  Schuyler. 
"What  are  you  thinking  about  ?"  he  queried. 

"Only  the  fool." 

"The  generic  fool  of  Kipling,  or  Young 
Parmalee  ?" 

"I  was  thinking  of  Young  Parmalee,  then." 

"And  the  woman?" 

Schuyler  quoted,  slowly: 

"A  fool  there  was " 

"Oh,  but,"  Blake  protested,  "I  wouldn't  call 
him  a  fool." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Schuyler.  "He  was 
a  fool." 

"Yes,"  returned  Blake.  "But  he's  dead, 
wow.*1 

"Bosh,"  retorted  Schuyler,  impatiently.  "I've 
no  sympathy  with  that  false  sentiment  that  for- 
bids one  to  speak  the  unpleasant  truth  of  a  dead 
person.  If  a  man  were  a  fool  while  alive,  his  dy- 
ing doesn't  absolve  him  of  his  folly.  Young  Par- 


THE  BEGINNING  133 

malee's  death  was  a  mitigating  circumstance,  how- 
ever. He  killed  himself;  which  shows  that  he  had 
some  manhood  left.  But  he  should  have  had  the 
decency  to  choose  another  place  for  his  self  de- 
struction." He  was  silent  for  a  moment;  at  length 
he  went  on:  "A  man  is  what  he  is,  and  he  was 
what  he  was.  His  dying  can  change  nothing  of 
his  living." 

He  looked  up.  His  wife  and  child  were 
coming  toward  him. 

"Say  nothing  to  them  about  all  this,  Tom," 
he  urged. 

"Certainly  not,"  acquiesced  Blake. 

A  steward  came  down  the  deck,  calling 
raucously : 

"All  ashore  that's  going  ashore!" 

Kathryn  turned  to  Schuyler. 

"And  now  that  the  time  has  really  come  to 
say  good-bye,"  she  said,  brokenly,  "here's  some- 
thing I  brought  you,  Jack." 

She  handed  him  a  little  box  of  glazed  card- 
board. Wonderingly  he  took  it. 

"For  me?"  he  cried,  with  simulated  gaiety. 
"That's  sweet  of  you,  dear  heart — sweeter,  even 
than  are  these."  For  he  had  opened  it,  and  taken 


134  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

forth  the  tiny  bouquet  of  forget-me-nots  that  had 
nestled  in  the  depths  of  the  moist  cotton,  "and 
these  are  sweetness  itself.  But  why  forget-me- 
nots  !  As  though  I  could  ever  forget  you,  even 
for  one  little  minute !" 

There  came  again  the  strident  call: 

"All  ashore  that's  going  ashor-r-r-r-r-r-r-r- 
r-e!!!" 

Violet  eyes  suffused,  Kathryn  was  clinging 
to  him. 

"Jack,"   she  whispered.     "Jack,   I'm   afraid 
I'm — going — to — cry." 

With  infinite  tenderness  he  held  her  to  him. 

"There,   there,   sweetheart  mine,"   he  said, 

soothingly.     "Don't  be  a  silly Now  we'll 

all  go  down  to  the  gangway,  where  the  big  hugs 

are Then  I'll  rush  back  here  and  we  can 

wave  one  another  good-bye  and  try  to  imagine 
I'm  going  only  over  to  Staten  Island  for  the  af- 
ternoon." 

i  Came  farewells  at  the  gangway — farewells 

of  tears,  of  heart-aches,  of  quivering  lips  and  moist 
lids — of  laughter  quavering  and  smiles  unreal — • 
of  the  good  hand  clasp  that  good  men  know — • 
the  touch  of  wet,  clinging  lips. 


THE  BEGINNING  135 

Schuyler  came  rushing  down  the  deck,  keep- 
ing to  that  part  of  the  ship  that  lay  nearest  to  the 
dock.  From  the  bouquet  that  had  been  given  him, 
he  plucked  tiny,  fragrant  blossoms,  casting  them 
to  those  that  had  given,  and  with  them  sending 
cheery  word  of  hope,  tender  word  of  parting. 

He  could  see  them  there,  far  below,  strain- 
ing against  the  ropes,  waving  to  him.  He  could 
see  the  violet  eyes,  tear  laden,  the  lithe,  slender, 
figure  of  his  wife  in  the  glory  of  her  perfect  wom- 
anhood— the  sturdy  little  body  of  his  child,  bare- 
legged, browned,  hair  tumbled,  waving  frantically 
a  tiny  little  square  of  muslin  and  shouting  farewells 
at  the  highest  pitch  of  childish  treble.  He  could 
see  his  friend — the  friend  such  as  few  men  may 
ever  have,  and,  having,  may  pray  to  hold — broad 
shoulders  protecting  wife  and  child  from  the  press- 
ing throngs — he  could  hear  his  voice  booming 
through  all  the  heterogenous  medley  of  sound. 

His  voice  choked.  Words  that  he  was  cry- 
ing— words  lost  in  all  the  confusion  of  sound  and 
movement — stuck  in  his  throat.  Moisture  came 

to  his  eyes He  turned  a  little 

Came  into  range  of  his  vision  a  tiny  streak  of  shift- 
ing crimson.  He  looked. 


136  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

She  was  sitting  there,  on  the  deck — she — - 
The  Woman.  She  lay  back  in  her  chair,  long, 
lithe  limbs  covered  with  a  rug  of  crimson  and 
black  and  dull,  dull  green.  She  was  dangling  gent- 
ly.  sensuously,  the  great  cluster  of  scarlet  roses 
that  she  held,  now  and  again  bringing  them  to 
Avhere  their  fragrance  would  reach  her  delicately- 

•chiseled     nose,     imperious,     haughty They 

looked    startlingly    red    against    her    cheek — like 

blood  upon  the   snow She  was  looking  at 

him There   was   no   movement,    save   the 

even,  languorous  swing  of  the  crimson  blos- 
soms. Lips,  vivid  red,  were  motionless,  half  part- 
ed in  a  little,  inscrutable  smile She  was 

looking  at  him He  forgot The 

whistle  had  been  blowing,  sounding  departure. 
He  had  not  heard.  There  was  a  lull.  From  afar, 
shrill,  childish  voice  brought  a  drifting,  "Bye,  bye, 

daddy,  dear !" He  did  not  hear , 

Her  eyes  were  on  his.    His  eyes  were  on  hers 
And  seemed  to  be  nothing  else , 


CHAPTER  SEVENTEEN. 

IN  THE  NIGHT. 

He  had  told  Parks  to  come  to  him  as  soon 
as  they  were  under  way.  There  were  certain  let- 
ters that  he  wished  to  get  off  in  time  to  send 
them  back  on  the  pilot  boat.  Parks  found  him  by 
the  rail,  gazing  at  a  tall,  darkly-beautiful  woman 
reclining  in  a  steamer  chair,  eyes  only  visible  above 
a  great  cluster  of  crimson  blossoms.  Parks  had 
spoken  to  him  three  times  before  there  was  forth- 
coming a  reply.  Then,  slowly,  as  a  man  awaken- 
ing from  a  heavy  sleep,  Schuyler  had  gone  with 
him  to  his  room. 

He  had  tried  to  dictate  his  correspondence; 
had  tried,  and  failed.  There  were  many  mistakes. 
His  thoughts  would  not  seem  to  coalesce.  His 
mind  was  not  upon  what  he  was  doing,  nor  could 
he  place  it  there.  And  Schuyler's  was  a  brain  that 
had  always  been  to  him  an  admirably  trained  ser- 
138 


IN  THE  NIGHT  139 

vant,  coming  when  he  willed  it,  doing  what  he 
willed  and  in  the  way  he  willed But  to- 
day it  was  a  servant  sullen,  rebellious,  recalcitrant. 

The  letters  remained  unwritten.  Nothing 

was  sent  back  with  the  pilot.  And  Parks,  won- 
dering, puzzled — and,  perhaps,  a  bit  perturbed — 
watched  the  pilot  swing  down  the  Jacob's  ladder, 
and  make  across  the  water  toward  his  craft,  with 
wonderment,  puzzlement,  perturbation  no  bit 
abated. 

Schuyler  paced  the  deck  all  that  day.  Lunch 
he  did  not  touch.  Dinner  found  him  undesirous  of 
food.  He  was  walking — walking — striding  up  and 
down,  up  and  down — deep  in  thought,  it  seemed 
— and  yet  he  had  not  been  able  to  dictate  his  let- 
ters. Parks  wondered  yet  more.  At  length  he 
went  to  his  employer  and  asked  him  if  he  were 
not  needed.  The  answer  was  curt;  it  was  "no." 
And  never  before  had  Parks  been  answered  with- 
out a  cordial  nod,  or,  perhaps,  the  good  smile  of 
good-fellowship He  could  not  understand. 

And  Schuyler?  His  brain  was  in  a  tumult. 
Like  us  all,  there  were  many  things  that  he  did 
not  know — there  were  many  things  that  he  did  not 
even  know  there  were  to  know Some  of 


i4o  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

these  he  was  beginning  to  learn.  It  had  shaken 
him — it  was  shaking  him — to  his  soul. 

He  did  not  see  The  Woman  again  that  day 

Her  room  was  across  the  corridor  from 

his.  He  heard  her  voice,  directing  the  steward 
to  bring  to  her  her  dinner 

It  was  dark  that  night — dark  as  night  sel- 
dom gets  in  the  northern  latitudes,  in  June.  The 
lights  of  the  deck  looked  like  vigorous  glow- 
worms. The  stars  seemed  very  far  away.  Far 
below,  as  he  paced,  he  could  see  dimly  a  great 
blackness  that  was  the  sea,  and  against  it  the 
white  of  the  waves  as  they  broke  sullenly  against 

the  Ihuge  hull Later  it  became  yet  more 

black.  The  stars  vanished The  ship  seemed 

a  world  of  its  own,  hurling  through  an  eternity 
of  utter,  deadly  space.  A  wind  sprang  up,  a  wind 
from  the  East,  wet  and  vicious,  a  wind  that  spat 
upon  one,  that  chilled  one,  that  slapped  one  with 
clammy  fingers. 

Schuyler  paced  the  deck.  Coming  out  of 
the  dim  half  light  of  the  promenade  into  the  cor- 
ner of  the  rail,  by  the  bow,  he  thought  he  saw 

her.  He  was  not  sure  at  first Then,  though 

his  eyes  pierced  no  more  clearly,  he  was  sure 


IN  THE  NIGHT  141 

He  went  closer.  She  stood  there,  white  hands 
clasping  the  bare  rail,  lithe,  sinewy,  lazy  body 
tilted  a  bit  backward  as  though  in  the  grasp  of  the 
spitting  wind.  Her  throat  was  bare  to  it,  and  her 
breast.  Her  lips  were  parted.  Her  eyes  were 
deep  lidded.  Her  head  was  poised  like  a  tiger  lily 
upon  its  stalk He  stood  there,  en- 
veloped in  the  blackness For  a  long  time 

she  stood  motionless.  Then  she  stretched  her 
white  arms  above  her  head,  stretched  the  long 
muscles  of  her  body,  as  a  panther  stretches.  She 
was  very,  very  beautiful He  stood  watch- 
ing  The  ship  lurched.  It  reeled  against  a 

huge  wave,  shivering  it  into  roaring  spume.  The 
wet  fingers  of  the  wind  had  wrapped  her  garments 
about  her,  every  fold  tight  against  her  rounded 
body.  She  stood,  arms  above  her  head,  lips  parted, 

silhouetted  against  the  foam The  ship  reeled 

again,  and  there  came  darkness  utter 

When  again  there  was  light  so  that  one  might  see, 
Schuyler  stood  alone. 

Six  bells  had  struck  ere  he  went  to  his 
room.  Then,  scourged  of  body,  scourged  of  soul, 
wracked,  harassed,  torn,  he  sought  his  berth.  But 
he  did  not  sleep.  He  thought  of  Parmalee,  the 


142  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

boy  who  was  a  man.  He  thought  of  The  Woman. 
He  thought  of  himself.  He  thought  of  the  wife 
that  he  loved.  He  thought  of  the  child  that  he 
loved — the  child  that  had  come  to  him  through 
that  wife.  He  thought  of  all  these  things,  and  of 
many  more;  and  he  did  not  understand;  he  did 
not  know.  For  God  has  shown  even  the  wisest 
of  us  but  little  of  this  world  in  which  we  live. 


CHAPTER  EIGHTEEN. 

WHITE  ROSES. 

It  was  two  months  later.  In  the  little  garden 
that  lay  on  the  side  of  the  big,  rambling  house  at 
Larchmont  where  the  sun  best  loved  to  dwell, 
roses  were  in  bloom;  and  roses,  even  as  the  sun, 
seemed  to  love  that  garden.  They  clustered,  great 
masses  bf  glowing  white,  against  the  latticed  ar- 
bor— they  caught  playfully  at  one's  hat  as  one 
would  walk  through  the  gate  that  led  to  the 
broad  green  lawn,  and  to  the  Sound  beyond — 
they  snatched  at  one's  clothing  as  one  would  walk 
past  the  largest  bush — the  one  that  stretched  its 
branches  across  the  French  window.  It  was  a  real 
garden — an  out-of-door  home — a  garden  in  which 
one  might  live,  and  in  which  one  might  be  glad 
that  one  was  alive. 

At  one  side  of  a  tiny  writing  table  set  upon 
the  thick,  carpet-like  sward,  sat  the  mother,  pen 
144 


WHITE  ROSES  145 

in  hand,  before  her  a  half-finished  letter.  Across 
from  her  the  child  pressed  strong  white  teeth  into 
the  yielding  wood  of  her  pencil;  and  before  her, 
too,  was  a  half-written  letter — a  sprawling,  uncer- 
tain letter  of  childhood. 

At  length  the  child  looked  up.  She  could 
see  that  her  mother  was  not  writing;  so  if  she 
spoke,  she  would  not  be  interrupting. 

"Mother,  dear?" 

"Yes,  honey?" 

"How  do  you  spell  love?" 

"Don't  you  know,  dearie  ?" 

The  child  shook  her  head. 

"L,"  prompted  the  mother. 

Muriel  ventured,  dubiously: 

"L-a-?" 

Her  mother  shook  her  head.  The  child 
ventured  again: 

"L-i-?" 

"No,  honey." 

The  child  kicked  her  brown  little  legs. 

"Tell  me,  mother  dear,"  she  besought. 
"Please  tell  me." 

"L-o-v-e,"  spelled  the  mother. 


I46  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Oh,  yes!"  I  'member  now Mother, 

dear?" 

"Yes,  little  sweetheart?" 

"When  is  a  daddy  coming  home?  It's  aw- 
fully hard  to  write  letters.  He's  been  gone  a  long 
time  now,  hasn't  he,  mother  dear?" 

"Yes,  dearie A  long,  long  time."  The 

violet  eyes  were  sad. 

"  'Most  a  year?"  persisted  the  little  one. 

Her  mother  smiled  a  little,  wanly. 

"It  seems  like  it,  doesn't  it?"  she  said.  "But 
it's  only  two  months — not  only  two  months,"  she 
corrected;  "but  two  months." 

Came  a  little  pause.  It  was  broken  again 
by  Muriel. 

"Mother,  dear." 

"Yes?" 

"Can't  I  make  the  rest  just  kisses?" 

With  a  smile — a  smile  of  infinite  love  and 
tenderness,  the  mother  leaned  across  and  kissed 
the  child  that  was  hers. 

"Of  course  you  may,  dearie,"  she  assented, 
softly. 

"Why  don't  you  write  kisses,  too,  mother, 
dear?"  queried  the  little  one.  "It's  lots  easier. . . . 


WHITE  ROSES  147 

Oh,  mother,  dear!  I'll  tell  you  what  I  wrote  if 
you'll  tell  me  what  you  wrote.  Will  you  ?" 

Violet  eyes  gave  loving  assent. 

"Oh,  goody !  We  won't  tell  anyone  else,  will 
we?" 

"No,  dearie." 

"Then,"  declared  Muriel,  "I'll  read  mine." 

She  picked  up  the  wrinkled  little  sheet  of 
sadly  irregular  chirography. 

"Dear  father  daddy,"  she  read.  "  It  rained 
yesterday.  Mother  and  I  are  well.  We  hope  you 
are  well  and  God  gave  our  new  cat  four  kittens." 
She  looked  up  into  the  face  of  her  mother.  "God 
is  awfully  good  to  cats,  isn't  He,  mother  dear?" 
she  asked.  She  went  on,  then,  with  the  assurance 
of  childhood :  "Please  come  home.  We  miss  you. 
I  fell  in  the  lake  yesterday,  but  didn't  take  cold. 
I  love  you And  the  rest  is  just  kisses." 

She  eyed  her  mother  anxiously. 

"Do  you  think  daddy  will  like  that  letter?" 
she  asked. 

Her  mother's  voice  was  a  bit  uneven  as  she 
answered. 

"I'm  sure  he  will,  little  sweetheart  I'm 
sure  he  will." 


148  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Now,"  requested  the  child,  "you  read 
yours." 

Kathryn,  drawing  the  child  to  her,  bent  for- 
ward. There  was  much  in  her  heart — much  that 
she  might  not  tell  to  anyone  of  all  the  world  save 
two — and  one  of  these  was  far  away;  and,  even 
though  the  other  could  not  understand,  still 

She  read: 

"My  John:  You  know  how  we  love  you, 
but  you  don't  know  how  we  miss  you.  Please, 
please  come  back  to  us.  If  it  weren't  for  Muriel 
I  don't  know  what  I'd  do,  John,  dear.  I  don't 
want  to  make  you  unhappy.  I  want  you  to  have 
all  the  honors — all  the  prominence — everything 
that  a  man's  heart  holds  dear.  But  I  can't  help 
being  jealous  a  little  of  the  things  that  are  keep- 
ing you  from  us " 

She  ceased,  turning  her  head  away.  A  robin, 
in  the  roses,  lifting  its  head,  broke  into  song.  The 
child  waited,  patiently At  length  she  in- 
quired : 

"Is  that  all,  mother  dear?" 

Kathryn  nodded.     "Yes,  honey." 

"Haven't  you  made  any  kisses?" 

"No,  dearie." 


WHITE  ROSES  149 

"But,"  protested  the  child,  "daddy'll  be  so 
disappointed !" 

"Will  he,  honey?  That  wouldn't  do,  would 

it? Very  well,  then,  mother'll  make  some 

kisses." 

With  Muriel  looking  on,  the  mother  made 
several  large,  and  heavy  crosses  at  the  foot  of  that 
which  she  had  written.  There  were  other  marks 
on  that  letter — marks  that  were  not  kisses — marks 
that  had  been  made  by  moisture,  and  that  had 
smeared  the  ink  as  they  had  been  quickly  wiped 
away. 

These  the  child  did  not  notice;  she  was  look- 
ing toward  the  house. 

"Here  comes  Aunt  Elinor,  mother,  dear," 
she  said. 


CHAPTER  NINETEEN. 

SHADOWS. 

Mrs.  VanVorst  had  been  very  ill.  A  fever, 
contracted  in  South  Africa  where  she  had  been 
with  her  husband — a  fever  gained  in  a  futile  effort 
to  save  the  life  of  that  husband,  had  sadly  fagged 
a  naturally  vigorous  constitution.  There  had  been 
a  recurrence  soon  after  her  return  to  America. 
Now  she  was  in  that  condition  of  indolent  convales- 
cence that  is  in  women  so  interesting,  in  men  so 
uninteresting. 

She  was  an  out-of-door  woman,  tall,  lithe, 
willowy.  In  the  rugged  health  that  was  normal- 
ly hers,  she  seemed  muscled  almost  like  one  of 
the  opposite  sex;  yet  she  lost  by  it  none  of  the 
charm  of  frank  femininity  that  was  hers.  She  was 
long-limbed,  clean-limbed,  quick  of  mind  and  of 
body The  forced  inaction  of  illness  was  irk- 
some to  her.  It  was  hard  for  her  to  walk  slowly; 


152  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

it  was  hard  for  her  to  sit  in  silent  inaction — to 
lie  in  indolent  unrest.  Too,  she  felt  more  than 
anyone  save  herself  might  ever  know  the  loss  of 
the  man  that  had  been  to  her  not  only  husband 
but  as  well  friend,  companion  and  comrade. 

She  had  been  of  the  world,  though  anything 
but  worldly.  She  knew  perhaps,  more  than  many 
another  of  the  Hidden  Things. 

She  strolled  forward  through  the  sun-flecked 
garden.  A  magazine,  its  leaves  still  uncut,  was 
in  her  hand.  She  sank  into  a  chair,  in  a  spot 
from  which  she  might  see  the  Sound  and  its  bur- 
den of  sails. 

"Tom  come  yet?"  she  asked. 

Kathryn  shook  her  head. 

"Not  yet." 

"Heard  from  Jack  to-day?" 

Again  Kathryn  made  negation. 

"The  foreign  mail  hasn't  come  yet,"  she  said. 
"I  told  Pierre  to  stop  at  the  office  for  it." 

Elinor,  selecting  a  paper  knife,  ran  it  slowly 
between  the  pages  of  her  magazine. 

"That  business  of  his  seems  to  be  keeping 
him  a  long  time,"  was  her  comment.  "What  did 
he  say  in  his  last  letter?" 


SHADOWS  153 

"Why,  there  are  several  matters  of  great 
importance  that  still  remain  unsettled.  It's  not 
a  little  thing,  his  mission,  you  know.  I  don't  know 
much  about  such  things;  but  diplomatic  questions, 
it  always  seemed  to  me,  take  years  and  years  of 
all  manner  of  serious  discussion,  and  weighty  ar- 
gument." 

Kathryn  tried  to  speak  lightly;  yet  the 
heaviness  of  her  heart  was  pitifully  apparent. 

Elinor  was  scanning  a  colored  frontispiece — • 
a  thing  of  vivid  yellows  and  brilliant  blues. 

"You're  feeling  almost  like  yourself  again, 
aren't  you,  Nell?" 

Elinor  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  replied.     "Thanks  to  you." 

"You  were  very  ill." 

"One  more  doctor  would  have  finished  me." 

Of  a  sudden,  there  came  from  the  drive  the 
quick  honking  of  an  automobile  horn,  together 
with  the  soft  purring  of  an  engine.  Muriel  leaped 
to  her  feet;  brown  little  legs  flashed  as  she  made 
her  way  across  the  garden. 

Kathryn  and  Elinor  watched  her  going. 
They  heard  her  cry,  "Oh,  Mr.  Tom!"  Another 
moment  and  Blake,  carrying  the  child  in  his  arms, 


i54  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

thrust  aside  the  bending  heads  of  the  white  roses 
and  made  his  way  into  the  garden. 

"Hello,  folks,"  was  his  greeting.  "Is  God 
in?" 

"Who?"  demanded  Elinor. 

"God,"  he  returned.  "This  is  heaven,  isn't 
it?  It  certainly  does  seem  like  it  to  anyone  who 
has  just  come  from  the  fireless  cooker  that  some- 
times rejoices  under  the  name  of  Manhattan.  My 
old  Aunt  Maria!  But  it  is  hot  there,  though." 

"We're  very  glad  to  see  you,  Tom,"  Kath- 
ryn  began;  "although  we  do  owe  you  a  scolding/' 

"What  for?"  he  demanded,  setting  the  child 
to  the  sward  and  taking  off  his  hat. 

"You  haven't  been  near  us  for  a  fortnight." 

He  seated  himself,   mopping  his  forehead. 

"Business,  Kate.  Business,"  he  declared, 
importantly. 

Elinor  laughed  in  pleasant  irony. 

"Business !"  she  repeated. 

"I  said,  'business,'  "  he  retorted. 

"Yes,"  she  rejoined;  "but  you  can't  prove 
it." 

"Can't  eh?"  he  inquired.  "Well,  you  go 
back  to  the  wicked  metropolis  and  you'll  find  that 


SHADOWS  155 

my  rent  is  paid  and  that  a  coupon's  been  cut  from 
one  of  my  bonds.  And  who  did  it,  I'd  like  to 
know?" 

"Oh,  your  secretary,  or  the  janitor,  or  some- 
body," returned  Elinor,  easily.  "Not  you." 

Tom  laughed. 

"I  must  have  a  very  negligible  reputation 
for  industry  in  this  menage.  How  do  you  think 
I  spend  all  my  time?" 

Elinor,  arms  akimbo,  half  faced  him. 

"Well,  Mr.  Bones,"  she  asked.  "How  do 
you  spend  all  your  time?" 

He  grinned  at  her,  friendlily. 

"Feeling  better,  aren't  you?" 

"I  feel  so  well,"  she  returned,  "that  if  this 
doctor  of  mine  weren't  such  a  Simon  Legree,  I 
could  play  you  eighteen  holes  of  golf  for  a  box 
of  gloves  against  a  box  of  cigars." 

"Gambler!"  he  scoffed.  "And  if  I  should 
win,  I  suppose  I'd  have  to  smoke  the  cigars." 

"Certainly,"  she  countered,  easily,  "if  I 
should  have  to  wear  the  gloves." 

He  sank  back  in  the  big  chair. 

"Well,"  he  asserted,  "it  were  useless  to 
speculate  on  that  which  may  never  be.  I  am  at 


156  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

present  in  that  interesting  state  of  a  man's  career 
where  golf  doesn't  belong.  A  man  who  is  beyond 
the  first  flush  of  adolescence  and  not  yet  in  the 
last  pallor  of  senility,  has  no  business  dallying  with 
golf.  He's  liable  to  get  sunstruck." 

Muriel,  who  had  been  listening  with  round, 
wondering  eyes,  ran  to  her  mother. 

"What  does  he  mean,  mother  dear?''  she 
asked. 

Elinor  replied  instead,  laughing. 

"Nobody  knows,  Muriel.     Not  even  he." 

"Now  that's  unkind,  Nell,"  protested  Blake; 
"unkind  though  true." 

The  child,  eyeing  them  for  a  minute  in  seri- 
ous non-understanding,  recurred  with  the  facility 
of  the  very  young  to  other  things. 

"Oh,  mother  dear!"  she  cried.  "We  forgot 
to  stick  up  our  letters  to  daddy." 

Taking  her  mother's  hand,  she  led  her  to 
the  little  table.  Elinor,  left  alone  with  Blake, 
turned  to  him  and  queried : 

"Heard  from  Jack  lately?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Not  lately.    Not  since  I've  seen  you." 

"Not  enjoying  himself  much,  I  suppose,"  she 


SHADOWS  157 

commented.  "He  always  stuck  to  this  place  in 
summer  like  a  barnacle.  Was  crazy  about  it." 

Blake,  sitting  with  left  fist  in  right  palm, 
eyes  upon  the  velvety  green  of  the  lawn,  shook  his 
head,  slowly. 

"He  shouldn't  have  left  a  home  like  this  if 
they'd  offered  to  make  him  Queen  of  Sheba," 
was  his  comment. 

Kathryn  had  turned  to  him.  There  was  in 
her  eyes  a  frank  gladness — a  sincere  welcome.  She 
was  glad  to  see  him ;  how  glad,  she  herself  scarcely 
knew.  She  had  few  friends;  for  there  were  but 
few  people  for  whom  she  really  cared.  She  had 
known  Blake  for  many,  many  years — known  him 
and  liked  him,  and  liking,  had  respected.  He  was 
of  the  few  men  whom  money,  and  bachelorhood, 
have  no  power  to  spoil.  And  they  are  few  indeed. 
The  one  has  power  to  spoil,  you  know,  even  as 
has  the  other;  and  both  together — unusual  indeed 
is  the  man  who  can  resist. 

"It's  good  to  see  you  again,  Tom,"  she  de- 
clared. "It's  been  lonely  here And  I  never 

thought  that  would  happen." 

"It's  good  to  be  here,"  he  returned,  look- 


258  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ing  steadily  upon  her.  "It's  good  to  be  here,  Kate. 
It's  a  perfect  place,  this — perfect." 

Elinor  had  risen;  plucking  a  bending  blos- 
som, inhaling  of  its  delicate  fragrance,  she  had 
wandered  through  the  broad  archway  of  the  ar- 
bor, toward  the  Sound. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence.  There  came 
from  between  Blake's  lips  a  deep  sigh. 

Kathryn  looked  up,  quickly. 

"What's  the  matter,  Tom?" 

He  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  don't  know.  Sometimes  things  go  all 
wrong — dead  wrong — and  no  one  can  tell  why,  or 
how,  or  what  to  do." 

"Why,  Tom!"  she  cried.  "What  do  you 
mean?  Has  anything " 

"Mean?"  he  interrupted.  "Oh,  nothing. 
Nothing,  of  course.  I — I  guess  it's  loneliness. 
There  are  a  lot  of  people  who  think  because  I 
have  a  motor  to  smell,  a  yacht  to  make  my  friends 
seasick  and  a  club  window  to  decorate,  that  I'm 
contented  with  my  lot.  But  at  heart  I'm  the  most 
domestic  individual  that  ever  desecrated  a  dinner 
coat;  and  sometimes  the  natural  tendencies  of  the 
gregarious  male  animal  will  not  down.  There's 


SHADOWS  159 

too  much  of  the  concentrated  quintessence  of  un- 
adulterated happiness  lying  around  here.  Maybe 
that's  it." 

"We  have  been  happy  here,  Tom — very, 
very  happy."  Then,  quickly:  "I'm  sorry,  Tom 
, I  understand,  and  I'm  sorry." 

He  smiled. 

"It's  nothing,  Kate,"  he  declared,  "nothing1 
at  all.  You've  got  to  expect  a  bachelor  to  kick 
every  once  in  a  while,  you  know.  They're  a  peev- 
ish lot  of  old  guys." 


i6o 


CHAPTER  TWENTY. 

A  FAIRY  STORY. 

Toward  the  child  of  his  friend,  and  of  his 
friend's  wife,  Blake  felt  not  as  men  in  his  place 
would  have  felt.  The  love  that  he  had  for  the 
dainty  little  thing  of  gold-brown  hair,  and  gold- 
brown  cheeks,  and  straight,  sturdy  little  legs  was 
the  love  of  a  man  for  his  own.  It  seemed  to  him, 
almost,  that  she  was  flesh  of  his  flesh,  blood  of  his 
blood,  bone  of  his  bone.  It  was  the  "almost"  that 
hurt;  for  she  was  the  child  of  the  woman  he  loved, 
and  of  another  man 

To  love  the  wife  of  another  man  is  a  bitter 
thing — a  bitter  thing.  To  love  with  dishonor  is 
not  hard;  but  to  love  with  honor  were  hard  indeed. 
To  go  away,  so  loving,  were  to  render  more  easy 
to  bear  the  thing  that  must  be  borne.  To  stay — 
to  see  day  by  day  the  happiness  that  lieth  beyond 
hope,  were  to  stand  in  hell  and  gaze  at  heaven. 
161 


162  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

And  this  were  most  bitter,  most  hard,  of  all.  Yet 
this  was  what  Blake  had.  done.  This  was  what 
Elake  would  do;  and  it  was  what  he  expected  to 
keep  on  doing  until  there  was  no  such  thing  as 
time  and  the  souls  of  all  men  were  dead.  He  did  it 
because  all  that  lay  for  him  in  life  lay  there,  even 
though  not  the  tiniest  bit  of  it  could  he  claim  for 
his  own.  And  he  was  a  man  of  heart,  as  well  as 
of  head,  and  honor. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  he  had  loved  the 
woman  who  was  the  wife  of  his  friend,  since  the 
day  when  she  was  as  her  daughter  was  now;  that 
his  love  for  the  little  one  that  was  of  her  trans- 
cended all  else  in  his  being — all  else  save  the  one 
thing  that  he  never  mentioned,  not  even  to  him- 
self. SHE  had  been  like  that;  a  dainty,  pretty, 
loving,  simple,  naive,  sturdy,  rugged  little  thing, 
with  wind-blown  hair,  and  sun-tanned  cheeks  and 
legs — soft,  gentle,  infinitely  appealing,  generous, 
loving.  In  the  little  one  that  was  of  her,  he  saw 
her  again,  violet-eyed,  glowing  with  the  glorious 
abundance  of  vigor,  building  wondrous  castles  of 
blue  beach  clay,  counting  the  soaring  gulls  against 
the  soft  blue  of  summer  skies,  wandering,  laugh- 
ingly, through  daisy  fields,  rolling,  a  whirling  little 


A  FAIRY  STORY  163 

tumult  of  lace  and  ribbons  and  wildly-waving  bare 
legs  down  the  stacks  of  fragrant  hay.  She  had 
been  like  that.  Small  wonder  that  on  her  child  he 
lavished  all  the  choked  tenderness  that  cried, 
sometimes,  so,  so  piteousfy  for  outlet. 

And  as  for  the  child — 'way,  down  deep  in 
her  little  heart,  she  had  builded  of  the  infinity  of 
her  love,  three  sky-reaching  heaps,  each  one  big- 
ger, and  more  wonderful  than  the  other.  One  of 
these  she  gave  to  her  mother;  one  to  her  daddy; 
and  one  to  "Mr.  Tom."  And  she  deemed  herself 
not  undutiful,  nor  lacking  in  filial  amity,  for  so 
doing. 

Kathryn  had  followed  her  sister  into  the 
house.  Left  alone  with  Blake,  Muriel  ran  swiftly 
to  him,  bounding  to  his  knee,  and  clasping  around 
his  neck  strong  little  arms. 

"Mr.  Tom,"  she  cried,  "you  haven't  told  me 
a  story  for  most  a  year !" 

He  held  her  to  him. 

"Haven't  I,  little  partner?"  he  inquired, 
with  infinite  tenderness.  "Well,  that's  a  grave 
omission,  isn't  it?  I'll  tell  you  one  now."  As  she 
sank  down  contentedly  in  his  lap,  and  settled  her 


164  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

outspreading  little  skirt  primly  about  her :  "What 
shall  it  be  about?" 

"A  fairy  story,"  she  suggested.  "A  fairy 
story  about  a  little  girl." 

He  sat  for  a  moment,  in  thought;  at  length 
he  began : 

"Well,  once  upon  a  time,  there  was  a  little 
girl — a  fairy  princess." 

"Was  she  pretty?" 

"Beautiful.  Beautiful  as  she  was  good,  good 
as  she  was  beautiful.  She  was  a  wonderful,  won- 
derful princess.  There  was  a  fairy  prince,  too/'" 
he  went  on,  "a  handsome,  dashing — a  prince  that 
everyone  loved  and  admired  and  honored." 

She  nodded,  seriously. 

"Yes,"  she  said.    "Go  on." 

"Now  in  the  part  of  the  country — it  was 
called  the  Land  of  the  Great  Unrest — there  lived 
a  gnome  who  was  a  friend  of  the  prince  and  prin- 
cess. Do  you  know  what  a  gnome  is?" 

Little  brows  were  bent  deep  in  mental  flagel- 
lation. Then,  at  length,  very  eruditely,  she  ven- 
tured : 

"No'm  is  when  you  say  no  to  a  lady,  isn't  it  ?" 

He  laughed,  a  little;  then,  seriously: 


A  FAIRY  STORY  165 

"That's  a  different  kind  of  a  gnome.  The 
kind  of  a  gnome  I  mean  is  a  fat  man,  with  long, 
thin  legs  and  a  big,  round  body  and  a  funny  face." 

"Oh,  now  I  know!"  she  cried.  "There's  a 
picture  of  one  in  the  book  that  you  gave  me  for 
my  birthday.  Only  this  one  had  whiskers  and  a 
funny  cap — like  a  cornucopia." 

He  nodded. 

"That's  the  fellow,"  he  agreed.  "That's  the 
kind  I  mean — only  all  of  them  don't  have  whiskers; 
and  some  of  them  wear  yachting  caps,  or  panamas, 

or  most  anything Well,  the  prince  and  the 

princess  loved  one  another,  and  they  got  married." 

"That  was  nice." 

"Yes,"  he  added;  "for  them.  But  it  wasn't 
for  the  gnome.  You  see,  the  gnome  loved  the 
princess,  too." 

"Did  she  know  it?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "No  one  knew  it  but 
the  gnome,"  he  returned.  "And  the  prince  and 
princess  were  very  happy.  Then  a  little  princess 
came  to  live  with  them,  and  they  were  happier 
yet." 

"A  little  princess  like  me  ?"  she  queried,  in- 
terestedly. 


166  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Very  much  like  you,"  he  assented. 

"And  what  did  the  gnome  do?" 

"Why,"  he  replied,  "the  gnome  just  went 
away  and  lived  in  a  hole  in  the  ground,  all  alone." 

"Didn't  he  ever  come  out?" 

"Yes;  he  used  to  come  out  sometimes  to  tell 
fairy  stories  to  little  girls.  But  he  had  to  go  back 
again,  all  alone." 

She  sighed  most  dismally  and  said: 

"Poor,  old  gnome." 

"Poor,  old  gnome,"  he  repeated. 

"And  then ?"  she  prompted. 

"That's  all." 

"Isn't  there  any  more?" 

"No." 

She  gazed  up  at  him,  disappointedly. 

"I  don't  think  that's  a  very  nice  story,"  she 
declared. 

"Don't  you?"  he  said;  "I'm  sorry,  little  part- 
ner. I  didn't  mean  to  tell  you  that  story.  I " 

He  ceased  speaking.  Elinor  was  beside  him. 
He  rose  to  his  feet,  hastily,  confused.  It  was  no 
little  thing  that  he  had  told;  it  was  a  thing  that 
he  had  never  meant  to  tell.  It  had  come  to  his 
lips,  as  a  parable;  because  of  the  way  he  felt  toward 


A  FAIRY  STORY  167 

the  child  that  was  not  his;  because  to  her  it  would 
never  have  meant  anything;  and  because  of  the 
things  inside  that  had  struggled  for  outlet  so  long. 
He  wondered  if  she  had  heard,  and  hearing,  had 
understood He  could  not  tell 

She  spoke  to  Muriel. 

"Run  in  to  Mawkins,  dear,"  she  instructed. 
Then,  as  the  child,  obedient,  scampered  from  the 
room,  she  turned  to  Blake,  thrusting  toward  him 
a  letter,  and  concluded: 

"Read  that." 


168 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-ONE. 

A  LETTER. 

Blake  took  the  letter.  With  its  taking  there 
came  to  him  a  premonition  that  the  things  that  he 
had  suspected — the  things  that  he  had  heard — the 
things  that  to  him  were  as  unbelievable,  as  utterly 
absurd,  and  ridiculous,  and  impossible,  as  might 
be  the  vainest  imaginings  of  the  vainest,  had  been 
proven  true. 

Over  the  first  of  the  letter,  he  skipped  curso- 
rily  At  length  he  found  John  Schuyler's 

name.  The  passage  relative  to  the  name  was 
brief.  He  read  it,  slowly,  word  by  word.  Then 
he  handed  back  the  letter  to  Elinor. 

She  had  seated  herself,  waiting.  One  knee 
was  crossed  over  the  other;  and  over  the  upper, 
her  hands  were  clasped.  She  was  eyeing  him 
keenly,  closely,  eyes  half  closed,  brows  contracted. 

To  her  Blake  turned. 

"Well?"  he  interrogated. 

"I've  known  Martha  Dale  for  sixteen  years, 
169 


170  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

She,  Kathryn,  and  I  were  children  together 

I  think  you  knew  her,   too She's  not  the 

woman  to  make  a  charge   like   that   unless  it's 
true." 

Blake  shrugged  his  shoulders.  A  great  pain 
shot  through  his  heart;  a  great  numbness  clamped 
his  brain.  He  had  heard  things  himself.  He  had 
seen  people  who  themselves  had  seen,  or  thought 
that  they  had  seen.  One  man  he  had  knocked 
down.  With  two  more,  his  good  friends,  he  had 
quarreled  irrevocably.  And  in  his  own  soul, 
something  had  told  him  that  it  was  he  who  was 
wrong. 

He  said  to  Elinor;  even  as  over  and  over 
and  over  he  had  said  to  himself: 

"There's  some  mistake.  There  must  be 
some  mistake.  It's  impossible." 

She  eyed  him  shrewdly. 

"There's  no  mistake/'  she  returned.  "She 
talked  with  him.  She  saw  him  with  this  woman. 
They  were  at  the  same  hotel  where  Martha  stayed. 

And  the  morning  after  she  came,  they  left 

There's  no  mistake." 

"But  Jack  wouldn't  do  a  thing  like  that,"  he 
protested. 


A  LETTER  171 

"You're  a  bad  liar,  Tom.     You  knew." 

"No!"  he  cried. 

"You  did.  You  know  you  did How 

long  have  you  known  this  thing  and  kept  it  from 
those  who  should  be  told?" 

"Who  should  be  told?" 

"Kathryn." 

"No!" 

"But  I  say  yes!"  She  went  on,  almost 
fiercely:  "Do  you  think  I'll  have  my  sister — the 
sister  whom  I  love  better  than  anyone  in  the  whole 
world — fooled  and  shamed  and  disgraced  and  dis- 
honored by  a  man  like  that?" 

He  raised  his  hand,  protestingly. 

"You  wouldn't  tell  her!"  he  cried. 

She  nodded,  jaw  set. 

"I  would,"  she  declared. 

"It  would  kill  her!" 

"Nearly;  but  not  quite.  She  has  too 
much  of  her  father  in  her  for  that.  And  she  must 
know.  It  is  her  right." 

"And  take  away  her  every  chance  of  happi- 
ness—and his  of  redemption." 

"Her  every  chance  of  happiness  is  gone; 
as  is  his  for  redemption,"  she  said,  bitterly.  And 


172  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

then:  "He  should  have  thought  of  these  things 

before  he  did  what  he  did There's  one  thing 

to  be  done,  and  only  one.  I  shall  tell  her." 

He  remarked,  slowly: 

"The  woman's  way:  To  bring  suffering 
where  suffering  might  be  spared." 

She  rounded  on  him,  swiftly. 

"The  man's  way:  to  stick  to  the  husband, 

and  deceive  the  wife You  men  have  two 

codes  of  ethics — a  loose,  convenient  one  for  your- 
selves, a  tight,  uncompromising  one  for  us. 
There  are  no  two  codes  of  ethics.  Right  is  right, 
and  wrong  is  wrong;  and  there  can  be  no  com- 
promise. When  a  man  marries  a  woman,  he  owes 
to  that  woman  every  bit  as  much  as  she  owes  to 
him. . . .,.  .Suppose,"  she  went  on,  tensely,  "that 
it  were  Kathryn  who  had  done  this  thing — who 
had  lied  and  deceived  where  she  had  promised  to 
love  and  honor.  What  then?  Would  you  tell  the 
husband,  or  wouldn't  you?" 

He  considered ;  and  said,  slowly,  positively : 

"I'd  lie  like  the  devil." 

She  whirled  about. 

"You  would?" 

"I  would." 


A  LETTER  173 

"Well,  I  won't.  And,"  she  declared,  lips 
tight  pressed,  jaw  tight  set,  "I  shall  tell  her." 

Then  from  the  house  came  Kathryn,  hap- 
pily, gaily.  In  her  hand  there  was  a  letter,  a  letter 
with  a  foreign  post-mark,  a  letter  that,  from  its 
jagged  end,  had  been  torn  open,  with  eager 
hands. 

"A  note  from  Jack !"  she  cried. 

"What  does  he  say?"  demanded  Elinor, 
tensely,  her  lithe  fingers  interwoven. 

"Oh,  terribly  lonely,"  returned  her  sister — 
"trying  so  hard  to  finish  his  work  and  get  back 
to  us.  I'm  adding  a  postscript."  She  seated  her- 
self before  the  writing  table.  "Do  you  two  want 
to  send  any  messages?" 

For  a  moment — for  a  long,  long  moment — 
did  Mrs.  VanVorst  stand,  silent,  motionless.  All 
that  the  thing  meant  that  she  was  about  to  do, 
no  one  knew  better  than  she.  She  stood,  silent, 
eyes  half  closed,  hands  clenched.  Blake  watched 
her,  shrewdly. 

After  a  long,  long  time,  she  took  a  short 
step  forward. 

"Kate,"  she  began.  "Kate,  dear.  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-TWO. 

AGAIN    THE    FAIRY    STORY. 

Kathryn,  busy  at  her  postscript,  did  not 
hear.  Blake  stepped  swiftly  forward. 

"No!"  he  whispered.     "No!" 

Elinor  put  him  aside. 

"Kate!"  she  said  again. 

Blake  stood  for  a  moment,  hesitant.  Muriel 
had  come  from  the  house.  To  her  he  called. 

"Come  here,  little  partner." 

Obediently,  she  came  running  to  him.  He 
seated  himself,  and  took  her  upon  his  lap. 

"Do  you  remember  the  story  that  I  told 
you  a  little  while  ago?"  he  asked. 

She  nodded. 

"Well,  there's  more  to  that  story.     Would 

you  like  to  hear  it?"     He  did  not  wait  for  hec 

answer;  he  spoke  swiftly,  surely.     Elinor,  across 

the  table,  eyed  him  curiously.    Kathryn,  still  writ- 

175 


176  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ing,  was  oblivious  quite  to  all  that  was  going  on 
around  her. 

Blake  continued: 

"Well,  there  came  a  time  when  the  prince 
had  to  go  a  long,  long  way  off.  The  princess  was 
very  sorry  to  see  him  go,  and  so  was  the  little 
princess;  and  they  cried;  but  they  were  brave 
princesses,  so  they  didn't  cry  much;  they  stayed 
at  home  and  wrote  him  letters  with  kisses  in  them. 

"And  then, — well,  the  fairy  prince  met  a 
witch — a  wicked,  wicked  witch — and  she  charmed 
him,  and  took  him  away  with  her.  Now  the  fairy 
princess  had  a  sister.  She  was  a  good  woman; 
and,  like  all  good  women,  she  was  hard-headed. 
The  sister  heard  about  the  witch,  and  she  wanted 
to  run  right  home  as  fast  as  she  could,  and  tell  all 
about  it.  And  that  would  have  made  the  princess 
cry,  and  the  prince  go  away  and  die,  all  alone." 

The  lids  over  the  violet  eyes  were  blinking; 
the  lips  quivered. 

"I  want  to  cry,  Mr.  Tom,"  she  complained. 
"That's  worse  than  the  other  story !" 

"Ah,  but,"  went  on  Blake,  hurriedly,  "the 
sister  didn't  tell.  She  wasn't  hard-headed.  She 


AGAIN  THE  FAIRY  STORY          177 

listened  to  the  voice  of  reason,  rather  than  to  that 
of  intuition " 

"What's  that  word  you  just  said,  Mr.  Tom  ?" 

"Intuition?" 

She  nodded. 

"Eh — ah,"  he  hesitated,  then,  "why,  intui- 
tion is  a  thing  that  women  use  for  a  brain.  And," 
he  continued,  "bye  and  bye  the  fairy  prince  man- 
aged to  get  away  from  the  wicked  witch  that  had 
charmed  him,  and  he  came  back  again  to  the  fairy 
princess,  and  the  little  fairy  princess;  and  though 
of  course  he  had  been  very,  very  bad — very,  very 
wicked — he  was  forgiven;  and  they  were  almost 
as  happy  as  they  had  been  before  he  went  away 

Do  you  like  that  story  any  better,  little 

partner?" 

She  was  all  smiles  now.  She  nodded, 
brightly. 

"Heaps,  and  heaps,  and  heaps !"  she  cried. 

"That's  good,"  he  said,  as  he  set  her  down. 

Kathryn  had  raised  her  head  from  her  writ- 
ing. 

"Fairy  story,  Tom  ?"  she  queried,  in  the  half- 
attention  of  preoccupation. 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 


178  A  700L  THERE  WAS 

"Does  it  end  happily?" 

Ere  he  could  have  replied,  her  thoughts 
were  again  of  her  letter. 

Blake  walked  slowly  to  where  stood  Elinor. 
She  was  toying  with  a  hanging  blossom  of  white, 
fragrant,  spreading.  Her  eyes  were  moist;  her 
hand  trembled. 

He  asked,  very  softly : 

"Does  it  end  happily,  Nell?" 

She  turned  to  him.    Her  lips  quivered. 

"I  hope  so,"  she  whispered.  "Only  God 
Himself  knows  how  I  hope  so !"  And  then  she 
added  slowly,  "If  women  were  only  as  loyal  to 
women  as  men  are  to  men !" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-THREE. 


AID. 


Blake  had  suspected;  but  he  had  refused  to 
believe.  Now  he  knew.  And  half  an  hour  later, 
"The  Vagrant,"  under  full  head  of  steam,  was 
surging  down  the  Sound  with  a  great,  white  bone 
in  her  teeth  and  a  great,  fan-like  wake  spreading 
huge  rollers  from  her  trim  stern. 

She  anchored  off  Thirty-Fourth  Street. 
The  launch  was  ready  almost  as  the  chain  rattled. 
Blake's  big  French  car  was  waiting  for  him  at  the 
pier;  and,  with  scant  regard  for  the  speed  ordi- 
nances, it  bore  him  swiftly  through  the  traffic- 
thronged  streets  to  lower  Fifth  Avenue,  and  to 
the  house  of  Dr.  DeLancey. 

The  passing  of  the  years  had  made  but  little 
change  in  either  the  good  doctor  or  his  abode. 
His  office  looked  the  same — dry  and  musty.     He 
looked  the  same — shrewd  and  kindly. 
180 


AID  181 

"Come  in,"  he  said,  with  the  testiness  that 
in  him  was  cordiality  concentrated.     "Come  in. 
Don't  stand  there  like  a  gump  stretching  my  bell- 
wire  all  out  of  shape.     Come  in.     Come  in." 
Blake  entered. 

"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  leading  the  way  into 
his  office.  "What's  the  matter  now.  Sick?  You 
don't  look  it.  If  all  my  patients  were  like  you  and 
the  Schuylers,  I'd  starve  to  death."  He  fumbled 
with  an  old-fashioned  cedar  cigar  chest. 
"Smoke?" 

Blake  took  the  cigar,  and  lighted  it 
"Well,"  said  the  doctor,  again.  "For 
heaven's  sake,  what's  the  matter !  Have  you  be- 
come suddenly  dumb?  You  have  a  tongue, 
haven't  you?  If  you  have,  for  goodness'  sake, 
use  it." 

Blake  answered,  slowly: 
"Doctor,  it's  about  Jack  Schuyler." 
The  sudden  little  look  of  anxiety  that  sprang 
to  the  good  old  man's  eyes  showed  how  much  the 
statement  meant  to  him. 

"About  Jack  Schuyler!"  he  exclaimed. 
"What  about  Jack  Schuyler?  No  harm — he's  not 
ill?" 


i82  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Very,  very  ill,  I  fear,"  Blake  responded.  "I 
don't  understand  it  at  all.  I  can't  compre- 
hend  " 

The  doctor  brought  his  old  fist  down  upon 
the  scratched  top  of  his  old  desk. 

"Will  you  stop  hemming  and  hawing  and 
shilly-shallying  around  and  come  to  the  point!"  he 
fairly  howled. 

"It's  about  Jack  Schuyler,"  repeated  Blake, 
slowly,  "and  a  woman." 

Doctor  DeLancey  started.    He  sat  erect. 

"What!"  he  cried.  "Jack  Schuyler  and  a 
woman  ?  You're  a  fool !  It's  ridiculous — impos- 
sible— absurd !" 

"That's  what  I've  been  telling  myself  for  the 

past  month,"  rejoined  Blake "But  it's  not 

ridiculous — it's  not  impossible — it's  not  absurd. 
Would  to  God  it  were !" 

"But  Jack  Schuyler!"  protested  the  doctor, 

^incredulously.  "Why,  I've  known  him  since  he  was 

born.    And  I  knew  his  father,  and  his  mother,  and 

his  grandfather  and  his  grandmother  before  him ! 

Damme,  I  don't  believe  it.     I  won't  believe  it !" 

"Neither  did  I."  returned  Blake.  "Neither 
would  I — until " 


AID  183 

He  told  the  doctor  of  the  letter  that  had 
come;  and  of  that  which  it  contained.  In  silence 
the  doctor  listened,  and  to  the  end. 

There  was  a  pause;  Blake  continued: 

"I  don't  "believe  I  could  do  anything.  I'd 
lose  my  head.  I  want  you  to  go  to  him,  to  see 
if  there  isn't  something  that  you  can  do.  I'll 
pay— 

The  doctor  leaped  from  his  chair,  waggling 
an  old  ringer  in  Blake's  face. 

"Pay!"  he  yelled.  "Pay  me  for  going  to 
Jack  Schuyler!  You  keep  your  dashed  money, 
my  boy.  When  I  want  any,  I'll  ask  you  for  it. 
D'ye  hear  me?  I'll  ask  you  for  it!  When  does 
the  first  boat  sail?" 

"It  sails  to-night — in  half  an  hour,"  returned 

Blake.  "It's  the  'Vagrant' I'm  going, 

too I  want  to  be  near  at  hand Good 

God !"  he  cried,  suddenly.  It  was  almost  a  wail. 
"To  think  of  Jack  Schuyler — our  Jack  Schuyler! 
—like  that!" 

The  doctor  came  in  from  the  hall  whence  he 
had  rushed.  One  arm  was  in  the  sleeve  of  his 
coat.  His  hat  was  over  his  ear.  He  was  vainly 
trying  to  put  his  left  glove  on  his  right  hand. 


1 84  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Well?"  he  blurted,  "what  are  you  standing 
there  for  like  a  bump  on  a  log  ?  Why  don't  you 
get  started  ?  What's  the  matter  with  you,  •  any- 
how? Come  on!"  He  turned,  and  shouted  up 
the  stairs :  "Mary !  Mary !  Ma-a-a-a-ry,  I  say ! 
I'm  going  away.  Don't  know  when  I'll  be  back. 
Ask  young  Dr.  Houghton,  across  the  street,  to 
take  care  of  my  patients  until  I  get  home.  He'll 
probably  kill  a  lot  of  'em;  but  I  can't  help  that." 

And  still  shouting,  still  fussing  with  glove 
and  sleeve,  he  bumbled  out  the  door,  and  down 
the  steps  to  the  waiting  car. 


185 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FOUR. 

RESCUE. 

Blake  waited  on  the  yacht,  in  the  harbor  of 
Liverpool.  It  was  hard  for  him  to  sit  idly  by  at 
such  a  time;  but  he  felt  that  it  was  best.  There 
was  in  his  soul  a  great  pity,  to  be  sure — a  great 
grief — a  great  horror — yet  there  was  there  too  a 
great,  deep  anger,  and  a  wild  resentment;  for  he 
loved  the  daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair,  you  know; 
and  it  was  not  alone  that  Jack  Schuyler  was  his 
friend;  it  was  as  well  that  he  was  her  husband, 
and  the  father  of  her  child.  So  he  did  not  trust 
himself  to  go,  then;  for  he  knew  that  all  that  he 
might  do,  Dr.  DeLancey  could  do,  and  more. 

Dr.  DeLancey  went,  then,  alone.  In  Lon- 
don he  found  John  Schuyler.  He  did  not  an- 
nounce himself;  he  bullied  and  stormed  and 
finally  persuaded  those  who  stood  between  him 
and  his  quarry,  to  let  him  go  unannounced. 

He  did  not  knock.  Instead  he  thrust  open 
the  door  and  entered.  Schuyler  was  standing  be- 
186  ' 


RESCUE  187 

fore  the  grate  with  its  burden  of  glowing  coals. 
He  looked  up.  He  started,  rubbing  his  eyes  as 
one  who  sees  but  doesn't  believe  that  which  his 
gaze  tells  him  to  be  so. 

"It's  you!"  he  cried. 

Dr.  DeLancey  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  simply.  "Jack,  I've  come 
to  take  you  home.  The  yacht's  waiting  at  Liver- 
pool. Tom's  boat,  you  know.  Steam's  up.  So 
get  your  hat." 

Schuyler  raised  his  hand,  protestingly. 

"But,"  he  began,  "I— 

The  doctor  cried,  explosively  : 

"Don't  you  try  to  argue  with  me,  young 
man.  I've  neglected  my  practice  and  let  every- 
thing go  to  the  devil  to  come  over  here,  and  I 
don't  want  any  of  your  dashed  buts  thrown  at  me. 
You  get  your  hat  and  coat  and  you  come  with 
me.  D'ye  hear  me?" 

"I  can't  go,"  said  Schuyler. 

The  doctor  brought  his  flat  fist  down  upon 
the  center  table. 

"Can't  go!"  he  howled.  "In  about  a  split 
second  I'll  show  you  whether  you  can't  or  not. 
You  get  your  hat  and  coat !  Or,"  he  went  on, 


i88  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"come  without  'em.  Ifs  all  the  same  to  me. 
Parks  can  pack  up  your  things,  and  come  on  the 
'Transitania,'  to-morrow.  You're  coming  now. 
D'ye  hear  me?  You're  coming  now — this  dashed 
instant !" 

He  advanced  upon  Schuyler,  gripping  him 
by  the  arm.  Schuyler  stood  for  a  brief  moment, 
doggedly.  Then  suddenly  his  head  dropped  for- 
ward upon  his  breast. 

"Very  well,"  he  acquiesced,  slowly.  Sud- 
denly his  voice  broke.  He  almost  whispered: 

"I'm  glad  you've  come,  doctor I  was 

helpless — utterly  helpless." 

They  took  the  train  within  the  hour.  And 
the  following  morning  found  the  "Vagrant"  at 
sea,  with  John  Schuyler  on  board.  Yet  it  was  a 
different  John  Schuyler  from  the  one  they  had 
•known.  He  had  refused  to  shake  hands  with 
either  Blake,  or  the  doctor.  He  did  not  mention 
the  woman;  nor  did  they.  They  tried  to  be  to- 
ward him  as  they  had  always  been — as  though  all' 

that  had  happened  alone  in  imagination 

He  did  not  sleep;  he  ate  but  little;  and  he  drank, 
some. 

Blake    was    heart-sick — soul-sick.      To    see 


RESCUE  189 

the  man  that  he  had  known  and  loved  as  that  man 
was!  But  Dr.  DeLancey  assured  him: 

"It'll  take  a  year  or  two.  But  he'll  be  all 
right  in  the  end." 

And  yet  even  Dr.  DeLancey  did  not  feel 
certain  that  it  was  the  truth  that  he  spoke. 

In  crossing,  Schuyler  spent  much  time  on  a 
long,  long  letter — a  letter  that  required  much  re- 
writing. On  landing,  he  mailed  that  letter  to  the 
daughter  of  Jimmy  Blair. 

As,  on  the  pier,  he  separated  from  Blake 
and  Dr.  DeLancey,  in  spite  of  the  insistent  pleas 
of  the  one,  and  the  testy  commands  of  the  other, 
that  he  come  to  live  with  them.  He  said,  only: 

"I  shall  go  to  a  hotel.  I  shall  stay  there  a 
fortnight.  Don't  come  to  see  me.  Don't  let  any- 
one come  to  see  me.  Don't  even  try  to  find  out 
where  I  am.  There's  one  thing,  and  only  one,  for 
me  to  do.  I'm  going  to  try  to  do  it Some- 
time, I  hope  that  I  may  shake  hands  with  you, 
Tom.  Sometime  I  want  to  shake  hands  with  Dr. 
DeLancey.  I  want  to  tell  you  both  all  there  is  in 
my  heart  to  tell  you.  But  that  time  is  not  yet. 
God  bless  you  for  all  that  you've  done  for  me." 

And,  white-lipped,  moist-eyed,  he  left  them. 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-FIVE. 

THE    RETURN. 

The  library  of  John  Schuyler's  town  house 
was  a  large  room,  done  in  dull  browns  and  deep 
greens.  All  that  good  taste  and  a  sufficient  purse 
could  do  to  beautify  it — to  render  it  alike  pleasing 
and  restful  to  the  eye,  comforting  and  satisfying 
to  the  soul,  had  been  done.  Carpeting  was  deep 
and  rich.  The  walls  were  panelled  of  mahogany, 
and  the  bookshelves  sunk  into  their  dull  depths. 
On  either  side  of  the  door  leading  to  the  hall  hung 
a  painting,  the  one  a  Turner,  the  other  a  Corregio. 
There  was  a  fireplace — a  huge  fireplace  wherein 
might  lie  a  four-foot  log;  above  it  a  mirrored  man- 
tel; before  it  the  skin  of  a  jaguar.  Across  from 
this,  a  .narrow  flight  of  stairs  led  to  the  private 
apartments  of  the  owner. 

It  was  early  fall  now.  The  roses  in  the  gar- 
den of  the  Larchmont  place  had  withered,  and 
fallen.  It  had  been  a  dun  morning,  a  morning 
191 


192  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

of  dull  gray Schuyler  sat  at  the  big,  ma- 
hogany desk  in  the  center  of  his  library.  Papers 
lay  spread  upon  the  table  before  him.  A  decanter 
of  cut  glass  and  silver  lay  there,  also. 

The  Schuyler  that  had  come  was  different, 
very,  from  the  Schuyler  that  had  gone.  He  was 
still  quick,  agile,  alert;  but  there  was  gone  from 
his  clean-cut  face  the  expression  of  cheerful  op- 
timism— of  confident  happiness — of  all-spreading 
good-fellowship.  Little  wrinkles  had  gathered  at 
eye-corners — deeper  were  the  lines  that  ran  from 
nostrils  to  the  ends  of  his  mouth.  But  these 
changes  one  might  not  have  noticed  were  it  not 
for  the  eyes.  For,  from  these  the  light  had  gone. 
They  were  as  lamps  unlit. 

Yet  was  there  one  other  change  apparent; 
for  while  before  he  had  concentrated  easily  upon 
that  which  he  had  to  do,  now  it  was  with  difficulty 
• — almost,  even,  with  impossibility.  He  paused, 
often,  to  pour  from  the  decanter  a  little  brandy 
into  a  small  glass,  and  to  drink  that  which  he  had 
poured.  He  rose  from  his  chair,  to  stride  ner- 
vously, up  and  down,  up  and  down.  He  seated 
himself  only  to  drink  again;  he  drank  again  only 
to  rise  again;  he  rose  again  only  to  sit  again. 


THE  RETURN  193 

He  rapped,  at  length,  upon  the  little  bell 
that  lay  upon  the  table.  Waited;  then  rapped 
again.  And  his  brows  creased  in  petulance. 

"Now  where  the  devil  is  Parks?"  he  mut- 
tered, nervously. 

He  waited;  and  drank  while  waiting.  Then 
rang  again  the  bell. 

Even  as  its  mellow  note  pierced  the  silence 
of  the  room,  the  door  opened,  and  Parks  entered. 
He  crossed  to  the  desk,  and  laid  upon  it  a  bundle 
of  documents  that  he  had  brought.  At  his  clear- 
cut  face  Schuyler  looked. 

"Well,  here  you  are  at  last,  eh?  Anyone 
would  think  that  I  had  sent  you  to  Singapore  for 
those  papers  instead  of  merely  upstairs." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  was  Parks'  quiet  re- 
sponse. 

Schuyler  took  the  papers,  drawing  them  to 
him. 

"That's  all,"  he  said,  curtly.    "You  may  go." 

"But " 

"I  said  you  might  go." 

Parks  still  hesitated.  Schuyler  looked  at 
him  angrily. 

"I  merely  wished  to  say,"  Parks  spoke  def- 


194  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

erentially,  even  soothingly,  and  possibly  a  bit  r«- 
luctantly,  "that  there  is  a  lady " 

Schuyler  interrupted,  quickly. 
)          Parks  nodded. 

"Yes,  sir.     The  lady." 

Schuyler  said,  eyes  closing  a  little: 

"A  lady." 

"Well,    send    her "      Then,    as    Parks 

started  to  go:     "No,  tell  her  I'm  not  here." 

"Very  well,  sir." 

Again  Parks  started  to  leave  the  room; 
again  Schuyler  stopped  him. 

"Wait.  I've  changed  my  mind.  I'll  see 
her." 

He  reached  for  the  decanter  of  brandy,  and 
poured  into  one  of  the  glasses  an  even  inch  of  the 
amber  liquor.  He  raised  the  glass  to  his  lips;  but 
set  it  down  again  untasted;  for  Parks  had  started 
to  speak  again. 

i  "Also  there's  a  van  here  for  your  wife's — 

pardon    me,    for    Mrs.    Schuyler's    furniture    and 
trunks." 

Schuyler's  brows  contracted;  there  was  the 
slightest  suggestion  of  a  quiver  at  lip-ends.  Then, 
after  a  long,  long  pause,  he  replied : 


THE  RETURN  195 

"Well,  let  them  take  all  that  she  se- 
lected   And  Parks." 

"Yes,  sir?" 

"I  won't  see  the  lady  after  all." 

Parks  nodded,  and  quietly  withdrew.  Lett 
alone,  Schuyler  for  some  moments  sat  silent  and 
motionless  before  his  desk.  But  nowadays,  he 
could  not  sit  motionless  for  long.  There  was  that 
inside  his  brain — inside  his  soul — which  would  not 
let  him.  It  kept  him  moving — moving — moving, 
without  rest,  without  cessation;  even  as  he  had 
paced  the  deck  of  the  liner,  on  that  other  morning, 
almost  until  the  day  had  come  to  claim  again  from 
the  night  that  which  was  its  own. 

Of  a  sudden  he  rose  from  his  chair.  Swift 
strides  took  him  across  the  room.  Quickly,  ner- 
vously, he  drew  back  the  curtain  from  the  win- 
dow   He  could  see,  beneath  him  in  the 

street,  the  van  that  had  come  for  the  belongings 
of  his  wife— of  the  woman  who  had  borne  him  his 
child — the  child  which  he  had  not  seen  since,  upon 
the  dock,  she  had  waved  him  farewell. 

John  Schuyler  had  wandered  into  the  Un- 
known. Unwillingly,  knowing  full  well  what  he 
was  doing,  but  powerless  to  help — powerless  to 


196  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

prevent — he  had  gone Sometimes  it  did  not 

seem  real  to  him.  It  was  a  nightmare — a  horrid, 
horrible,  awful,  grewsome,  rotten  dream,  a  dream 
that  brought  to  his  nostrils  a  stench — to  his  soul 
a  coldness  unutterable — a  coldness  beside  which 

that  of  death  might  seem  a  grateful  warmth 

He  would  wake  sometimes  from  his  dreams,  a  cold 
sweat  enveloping  him  like  a  pall,  a  scream  upon 

his  lips And  then,  again He  did  not 

understand.     He  could  not  understand.     It  was 

hopeless,     utterly,     utterly     hopeless Why 

should  such  things  be?  How  could  such  things 
be?  There  was  a  God,  presumably.  Presumably, 

that    God   was    good There    was    no    logic 

in  it — no  reason  in  it What  did  it  all  mean  ? 

"Why?"  he  asked  himself,  again  and  again,  and 

yet    again.      "Why?" There    had    been    no 

answer 

He  watched  the  van  load.  He  watched  the 
heavy  horses  throw  themselves  into  the  traces,  as 
the  whip  fell  across  their  flanks.  He  watched  the 
van  slowly  gather  momentum.  He  watched  it 

rumble  heavily  down  the  sodden  asphalt At 

length  it  turned  the  corner 


THE  RETURN  197 

John  Schuyler  swung  on  his  heel.  And  then 
he  laughed;  it  was  a  laugh  that,  God  grant,  you 
may  never  laugh,  nor  1 1 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SIX. 

THE    RED    ROSE. 

He  did  not  see  her  enter.  He  did  not  hear 
her  enter.  Yet  he  knew  that  she  was  there,  al- 
though he  had  left  her  across  an  ocean An- 
other sense,  it  seemed,  there  was  within  him 

He  knew  that  she  had  crossed  the  room; 

that  she  was  leaning,  rounded  arms  all  bare,  across 
the  back  of  the  great  chair,  by  the  window.  He 
did  not  know;  he  had  not  looked;  yet  he  could 
see  her,  beautiful,  gloriously  beautiful  in  her 
strange,  weird,  dark  beauty;  head  poised  like  a 
tiger  lily  upon  its  stalk;  great  masses  of  dead 
black  hair  coiled  in  the  disorder  that,  of  her,  was 
order  above  the  low,  white  forehead;  vivid  lips 
parted  to  reveal  the  gleam  of  shining  teeth;  long, 
lithe  limbs  in  the  easy  relaxation  that  is  of  the 
panther,  or  the  leopard. 

At  length  he  turned She  was  there. 

199 


200  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

She  was  as  he,   unseeing,  had   seen;  as  he  had 

known  that  he  should  see He  had  ceased  to 

wonder.  The  Unknown  had  taught  him  so  much 
that  of  the  things  it  had  not  taught,  he  had  ceased 

to  wonder 

i  He  looked;  and  looked  away.     She  laughed, 

a  little,  lightly.  She  turned  a  little,  lissomely.  He 
could  see  the  muscles  of  her  straight,  slender 
shape  ripple  beneath  the  shimmering  black  gown. 

At  length  he  spoke,  roughly,  gruffly : 

"Well?" 

Almost  caressingly,  she  answered : 

"Well?" 

"So  you've  come  to  gaze  upon  the  ruin  you 
have  wrought,  eh?" 

Again  she  laughed. 

"Upon    the    ruin    we    have    wrought,    My 
Fool,"  she  corrected. 

"Don't    call    me    that,"    he  muttered.      "It 
hurts.     It  hurts  because  it's  true." 

"Most  truths  hurt,"  she  remarked,  smilingly. 

"Now,"    he    mumbled,     "yes "    And 

then :    "You're  satisfied,  I  hope.    She's  gone." 

"Gone  ?"     It  was  a   pretty  inflection — the 


THE  RED  ROSE  201 

rising  inflection  of  great  surprise.  Her  eyes, 
glowing  of  merriment,  belied  her  lips. 

"Gone,"  he  repeated,  doggedly.  "Gone, 
and  taken  the  child — my  child — our  child — with 
her." 

She  glided  across  to  where  he  sat;  she 
leaned  over  him. 

"And  you're  sorry,  I  suppose,"  she  asked, 
mockingly.  "Heart-broken!" 

"Yes,  by  God!  I  am!"  he  cried,  from  the* 
soul. 

There  came  from  her  lips  a  peal  of  merr>, 
musical  laughter. 

"The  man  of  it!  Every  man  wants  two 
women — one  to  love,  and  one  to  respect;  one  to 
caress,  the  other  to  honor;  one  to  please  himself, 
the  other  to  please  his  friends.  And  you're  no 
different  from  the  rest  that  I  have  known." 

He  looked  up  at  her,  eye  laden  of  hate,  and 
scorn. 

"The  rest  that  you  have  known !"  he  re- 
torted, with  bitterness,  with  meaning. 

"The  rest  that  I  have  known,"  she  returned, 
evenly,  lightly. 


202  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Young  Parmalee,  and  Rogers,  and  Seward 
Van  Dam — and  God  knows  how  many  more!" 

She  laughed. 

"Jealous,  eh?  That  is  as  it  should  be,  My 
Fool."  She  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 
Roughly  he  took  it,  casting  it  from  him. 

"Damn  you !"  he  cried.     "Let  me  alone !" 

She  drew  up,  stiffly,  but  speaking  softly, 
said, 

"So?" 

"I — I  didn't  mean  it  that  way,"  he  apolo- 
gized. 

"I  wonder  if  you  ever  spoke  that  way  to 

her — the  other You  didn't,"  came  from  her 

slowly. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  replied. 

The  Woman  seated  herself  upon  the  arm 
of  his  chair,  lithely. 

"And  do  you  know  why?" 

Again  he  shook  his  head. 

"Because  you  never  loved  her  as  you  love 
me.  A  man  is  as  rough  sometimes  to  the  woman 
he  loves  as  at  other  times  he  is  sweet."  She 
plucked  a  scarlet  rose  from  the  great  cluster  that 


THE  RED  ROSE  203 

she  wore  at  her  breast,  dangling  it  in  one  white 
hand,  lazily,  sensuously. 

"You  know  well  of  men,  don't  you,"  Schuy- 
ler  remarked,  bitterly. 

"Well  enough,"  she  replied,  lightly.  "And 
that  is  why,  when  you  said,  'Damn  you,  let  me 
alone !'  that  I  didn't  say,  'Damn  you !'  "  she  struck 
him  lightly  across  the  face  with  the  scarlet  blos- 
som, "and  go."  Then,  with  abrupt  ^transition: 
"That  and  because  I  love  you." 

He  laughed,  mirthlessly. 

"Because  you  love  me!"  he  cried,  his  voice 
all  scorn.  "Because  you  love  me !  Does  love  then 
bring  disgrace,  and  ruin,  and  dishonor  upon  the 
object  of  its  lavishment?  Does  it?  Does  it?" 

She  had  sunk  upon  the  floor  at  his  feet.  Her 
legs  were  drawn  beneath  her;  she  poised  herself 
upon  her  supple  white  arms,  looking  up  at  him. 

"Sometimes,"  she  returned,  evenly.  "Even 
as  it  brings  joy,  and  ecstasy  and  happiness  un- 
told  And  it  does  bring  that,"  she  purred, 

sibilantly.  "Doesn't  it,  My  Fool?" 

He  leaned  forward,  drawing  her  to  him. 

"You  know  it,"  he  cried "You  know 

it!" 


204  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

She  saw  beginning  to  glow  in  the  leaden 
eyes  the  light  that  she  alone  knew  how  to  kin- 
dle   It  pleased  her It  pleased  her  also 

to  blight  it  at  her  will.  She  laughed.  She  knew 
as  well  how  to  blight  as  how  to  kindle.  She  knew 
also  how  to  twist  a  soul  in  torment;  and  how  to 
swirl  it  to  the  false  heaven  of  unreal  joys.  For 
she,  of  the  Unknown,  knew  much — more,  per- 
haps, than  of  the  known.  She  said,  laughing  jang- 
lingly : 

"But  did  you  ever  think,  My  Fool,  that  there 
are  different  loves?" 

He  sunk  back  into  his  chair.  The  eyes 
again  were  leaden.  His  head  bent.  She  leaned 
forward,  taking  from  a  vase  on  the  table  a  nod- 
ding white  blossom. 

"One  love,"  she  went  on,  "is  like  the  white 
rose — pallid,  pale,  wistful,  weak — a  lifeless  thing 
that  lies  dead  against  the  hand  that  holds  it — that 

wearies  the  eye  and  chills  the  soul The  other 

love  is  like  the  red  rose — rich,  rare,  glowing,  glo- 
rious— that  thrills  the  heart  with  the  joy  of  living 
and  quickens  the  blood  in  the  veins  until  the  very 
soul  cries  out  in  the  frenzy  of  its  fragrance — a 
pulsing,  throbbing  love  of  body  and  soul  and 


THE  RED  ROSE  205 

heart  and  head,  that  rushes  upon  one  like  a  storm 
at  sea,  dashing  one  hither  and  thither,  impotent  in 

its  tearing,  tossing  grip That  is  our  love — 

the  Red   Love — and   it  is   sweet,   is  it  not,   My 
Fool?" 

She  bent  over  him,  watching  the  light  again 
leap  to  the  heavy  eyes  as  he  answered : 

"Sweet?  Sweet  as  Paradise — a  false  Para- 
dise, perhaps;  but  still  Paradise!  Those  days  on 
the  Mediterranean,  the  sea  no  bluer  than  the  sky 
that  held  it  in  its  sunlit  hand — and  Venice — • 
Venice,  with  the  great,  round  moon  overhead,  and 
the  mysterious  semi-darkness  all  about — the 
plashing  of  soft  waters  there  beside  us  and  the 
silent  whisper  of  the  lazy  oar — and  just  you  and 
I — alone  amid  all  the  glories — side  by  side — 
heart  in  heart — soul  in  soul."  With  a  great  chok- 
ing sob:  "It  was  sweet,  Lady  Fair!  Sweet!" 
I  The  Woman  continued: 

"And  there  are  two  roads  through  life  even 
as  there  are  two  roses.  The  one  is  a  rough  road 
and  weary,  and  on  it  happiness  seldom  treads.  It 
is  a  plodding  road,  flat  and  long;  and  there  you 
walk  with  stale  and  barren  people,  through  a  stale 


206  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

and  barren  land,  until  you  come  to  an  ending  yet 
more  stale  and  more  barren  than  are  road  or  peo- 
ple. That  is  the  road  of  the  White  Rose.  But  the 
Road  of  the  Red  Rose !  That's  different !  On  the 
Road  of  the  Red  Rose  there  is  laughter  and  light, 
and  happiness  and  joy!  Flowers  bloom;  birds 
sing.  There  come  the  soft  wash  of  the  sea — the 
silent  whisper  of  the  breeze — the  call  of  Love !" 

She  rose  lithely  to  her  feet.  In  one  hand 
she  held  the  bending  white  blossom;  in  the  other 
the  crimson.  Suddenly  she  thrust  them  toward 
him,  body  bent,  lips  parted,  and  cried,  sibilantly: 

"Which  rose  do  you  choose,  My  Fool? 
Which  Road?" 

Roughly  he  struck  from  her  hand  the  droop- 
ing flower  of  white.  That  of  red  was  crushed  be- 
tween them  as  he  seized  her  in  his  arms  and  drew 
her  to  him. 

"The  red  rose!"  he  cried.  "And  the  Red 
Road!  And  we'll  travel  to  the  end,  and  beyond  F* 


207 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-SEVEN. 

THE    RED    ROAD. 

From  across  the  table  she  was  laughing  at 
him,  brightly,  merrily — laughing  to  see  the  havoc 
that  she  had  wrought  in  the  soul  of  a  man.  He 
turned  to  her,  almost  savagely. 

"You  do  love  me,  Lady  Fair,  don't  you  ?"  he 
almost  pleaded.  "You  must  love  me,  knowing 
as  you  do  all  that  I  have  given  up  for  you."  He 
pointed  to  a  heap  of  carelessly-tossed  letters  upon 
desk-top.  "Do  you  see  those?"  he  demanded. 
"The  first  from  Washington — the  President — de- 
manding my  resignation.  Following  that,  curt 
requests  that  I  withdraw  from  positions  of  trust 
that  I  held.  My  wife  crushed — my  child  dis- 
graced— my  friends  gone !  God  in  heaven ! 

What  haven't  I  given  you,  Lady  Fair!" 

"I  thank  you,"   she  responded,   most   gra- 
ciously, bending  low,  "And  I  have  given  you  what  ? 
Myself.    Is  that  less  than  a  fair  exchange?" 
208 


THE  RED  ROAD  209 

"Not  if  I  may  keep  that  self  mine,  and  mine 
alone,  for  all  time.  But  may  I?" 

"Can  you  doubt  it  ?"  she  queried,  with  a  lift- 
ing of  arched  brows. 

"There  was  Parmalee— — " 

"A  silly  boy.     I  never  cared  for  him!" 

"And  Rogers " 

"Interesting — only  interesting — and  only  at 
first.  Then  tiresome !" 

"And  Seward  Van  Dam." 

"Next  to  you,  a  man,"  she  cried.  "But  like 
you,  insanely  jealous,  and  unreasonable." 

"And  in  the  end,  perhaps,"  he  said  slowly, 
very  slowly,  "I  shall  be  like  him."  He  sat  for  a 
moment,  silent.  At  length  he  continued:  "But 
if  it  were  to  be  I,  I  alone,  for  all  time,  could  it 

last — this  Red  Love  of  ours  ?  Could  it  ? 

Could  it?" 

She  leaned  forward. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked,  lightly.  "Why 
not?" 

Leaden  eyes  were  gazing  out  into  nothing- 
ness. 

"Age  comes,"  he  said.  His  voice  was  low, 
and  deep,  and  dead.  "The  body  withers.  The 


210  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

brain  grows  dull.  The  blood  becomes  thin.  The 
soul  gets  weary.  And  the  power  to  live  as  once 
we  lived  is  taken  from  us.  We  sit  white-haired, 
blue-veined,  drinking  in  the  sun  through  shriv- 
elled pores  to  drive  the  chill  from  our  shrunken 
frames.  It  will  come  to  you — to  me — to  all  of  us. 
And  neither  man,  nor  God  may  stop  it." 

There  had  come  to  her  face  an  expression 
as  of  a  great  fear.  This  man  who  knew  so  little, 
was  teaching  of  that  little  to  her,  who  knew  so 

much At  length  she  swept  that  fear  from 

her,  as  one  might  brush  aside  the  ugly  web  of  a 

sullen  spider Again  she  was  the  woman  who 

did  not  know  the  Known,  but  only  the  Unknown. 

She  asked,  lightly: 

"Why  worry  over  the  years  to  come  when 
the  days  that  are  are  ours There  is  happi- 
ness in  the  days  that  are?" 

Her  voice  was  very  soft.  Again  dull  eyes 
gleamed;  he  exclaimed: 

"Happiness!  I  did  not  dream  there  could 
be  a  happiness  like  this!" 

Her  slender  arm  was  about  his  neck;  he 
could  feel  the  glow  of  its  warmth.  Her  voice  was 


THE  RED  ROAD  211 

soothing — infinitely  soothing,  and  musical  beyond 
the  telling. 

"Then  keep  a-dreaming,  My  Fool,"  she 
purred,  softly.  It  was  almost  a  whisper.  "Keep 
a-dreaming." 

"Would  to  God  I  could!"  he  cried,  earn- 
estly. "Would  to  God  I  could,  forever!  The 
memories  of  a  thousand  joys  are  with  me  always. 
Love?  What  is  this  love?  A  golden  leaf  of  hap- 
piness floating  on  the  summer  seas  of  life.  A 
silver  star  of  utter  joy  set  in  the  soft  heavens  of 
eternity.  A  dream  that  is  a  reality;  a  reality  that 

is  a  dream But  the  storm  comes  upon  the 

sea.  Black  clouds  blot  out  the  stars.  And  there 
can  be  no  dream  from  which  there  is  no  awaken- 
ing." 

"Yet,"  she  cajoled,  "while  the  sea  smiles — 
while  the  star  shines — while  we  dream — there  is 
happiness  to  pay  for  all." 

"To  pay  for  all,  and  more!"  Again  he 
turned  upon  her,  swiftly.  "Yet  tin  the  golden 
aura  of  that  happiness,  there  always  stand  three 
sodden  souls  pointing  stark  fingers  at  me  in 
ghoulish  glee Parmalee — Rogers — Van- 


212  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

Dam If  I  thought — if  I  for  one  moment 

thought — that  I  should  be  as  they,  I'd " 

She  stopped  him,  quickly: 

"You'd  what,  My  Fool?" 

"I'd  kill  you  where  you  stand!"  he  replied, 
savagely. 

She  laughed,  gaily,  clapping  soft  palms. 

"That's  the  way  I  love  you  best,  My  Fool. 
It  shows  spirit,  and  manhood,  and  good,  red 
blood — red,  like  our  roses !"  She  plucked  from 
her  breast  a  handful  of  scarlet  petals,  casting  them 
above  her  head.  They  fell  about  them  both,  a 
glowing  shower.  She  went  on:  "How  for  a  mo- 
ment you  could  have  imagined  that  you  love  the 
woman  you  call  wife — a  soft,  silly,  nambv- 
pamby " 

He  was  on  his  feet  now,  fierce,  primal,  bru- 
tal— all  the  manhood  that  was  left  of  him  straight 
and  rigid. 

"Stop !"  he  commanded.  "Don't  you  dare 
say  one  word  against  her,  or  by  God,  I'll " 

She  interrupted,  rising  haughtily  before 
him,  and  said  coldly,  incisively: 

"You  forget  yourself.     You  humiliate  your- 


THE  RED  ROAD  213 

self.  You  insult  me.  I'll  say  what  I  please  of 
whom  I  please." 

"You'll  keep  your  tongue  off  her,  and  off 
the  little  one !" 

"I'll  not  if  I  choose  not!" 

"You  will !" 

She  laughed.  He  stood  for  a  moment, 
poised  in  anger.  Then  the  momentary  flash  ot 
righteous  wrath  was  gone.  He  turned,  slowly, 
from  her. 

She  remarked,  lightly,  scornfully: 

"The  man  of  it,  and  again  the  fool  of  it. 
You  would  protect  her  who  has  scorned,  and 
flouted,  and  humiliated  you." 

"The  fault  was  mine,"  he  flashed.  "And 
you  know  it;  and  I  know  it." 

"Then  why  did  you  do  it?" 

He  shook  his  head,  eyes  again  leaden. 

"God  knows,"  he  whispered. 

She  stood  for  a  moment;  then  again  laugh- 
ter rippled  from  the  red  lips. 

"But  why  should  we  quarrel?"  she  asked, 
gently.  "There  are  things  in  life  more  sweet." 
She  went  to  him,  leaning  toward  him,  beautiful 
arms  extended,  lissome  body  bent. 


214  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"A  kiss,  My  Fool,"  she  whispered. 

He  turned  from  her. 

"No,"  he  cried. 

She  smiled. 

"I  said,  'A  kiss,  My  Fool !'  "  she  repeated. 

"I  heard." 

Her  eyes  were  on  him Slowly  he 

turned The  set  jaw  relaxed;  the  straight 

limned  lips  weakened He  looked  at  her. 

Her  lips  now  were  almost  upon  his  own;  her 
eyes  were  very  close  to  his.  Again  she  whispered; 
softly,  si^ilantly,  caressingly: 

"A  kiss,  My  Fool!" 

*  #  #  #  * 

He  thrust  her  from  him. 

"You  devil !"  he  cried.  "I  love  you — and  I 
hate  you!  You  are  beautiful — and  you're  ugly! 
You  are  sweeter  than  the  last  of  life — and  more 
bitter  than  the  sodden  shame  of  a  secret  sin !" 

She  replied,  lightly,  arranging  the  masses  of 
her  hair  with  deft,  slender  fingers : 

"All  of  which  is  quite  as  it  should  be,  My 
Fool;  for  the  hate  makes  the  love  but  the  more 
poignant:  the  ugliness  is  but  a  fair  setting  for  the 


THE  RED  ROAD  215 

beauty;  and  sweetness  in  bitterness  is  far  more 
sweet  than  sweetness  alone." 

Her  mood  was  different  now.  He  had  sunk 
into  the  great  chair.  She  seated  herself  upon  its 
arm;  her  head  sunk  to  his;  her  cheek  against 
his And  again  he  kissed  her,  on  the  lips. 


216 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-EIGHT. 

THE    BATTLE. 

The  car  stopped  before  the  porte-cochere. 
Blake  alighted.  He  knew  well  the  way.  He  did 
not  ring;  for  the  door  was  unlocked — ajar.  Jaw 
close  set — lips  but  a  thin  straight  line,  he  made 
his  way  down  the  great,  dark,  silent  hall.  He  had 
come  to  do  that  which  it  were  hard  to  do.  When 
one  has  been  the  friend  of  such  a  man  as  John 
Schuyler  was — when  one  has  felt  toward  a  man 
as  such  a  man  as  John  Schuyler  must  be  felt  to- 
ward— when  one  has  known  that  man  to  do  the 
things  that  he  has  done — when  one  has  seen  the 
misery — the  suffering  unutterable  that  he  has 
caused — the  shame  beyond  depth,  the  grief  be- 
yond measurement — and  when  she  upon  whom 
has  been  heaped  this  shame  and  grief  and  misery 
and  suffering  unutterable  is  the  woman  one  loves 
— then  it  becomes  not  a  little  thing  to  go  to  that 
217 


218  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

man  without  murder  in  one's  heart  and  vengeance 
in  one's  soul. 

Blake  knew  where  he  was  most  likely  to  find 
the  man  that  had  been  his  friend.  There  he  went, 
thrusting  open  the  broad  door.  He  paused  upon 
the  threshold 

The  woman,  lifted  her  head She 

moved  away  from  Schuyler,  arranging  the  dead 
black  masses  of  her  hair She  laughed  a  little. 

Schuyler  turned.  Eyes  again  leaden  saw 
Blake. 

"You!"  he  cried. 

Blake  said  no  word. 

Schuyler  laughed,   raucously. 

"So  you,  of  all,  have  not  decided  to  flee  from 
the  leper." 

Blake,  looking  at  him,  said,  slowly: 

"No;  I  stay  behind  and  stand  the  stench 
for  the  sake  of  him  who  was  my  friend." 

"Is  the  stench  then  so  great  that  it  pre- 
cludes the  common  courtesy  of  announcing  your 
presence?" 

Blake  made  no  answer  to  this. 

"I  wish  to  see  you  alone,"  he  said,  simply. 

Schuyler  half  swung  from  him. 


THE  BATTLE  219 

"You  may  see  me  as  I  am,"  he  returned, 
doggedly. 

"And  a  most  damnably  unpleasant  sight  it 
is." 

Schuyler  wheeled. 

"You  go  too  far,"  he  said,  threateningly. 

"Too  far?"  repeated  Blake.  "Impossible 

I  wish  to  see  you  alone — if  you,  and  this 

woman — dare." 

She,  smiling,  bowed,  graciously. 

"By  all  means,"  she  agreed,  easily. 

"No!"  cried  Schuyler.  "Stay  where  you' 
are." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Pray  pardon  me.  I'll  wait  in  the  morning 
room." 

Alone,  Blake  turned  and  looked  at  Schuyler. 
Could  it  be  that  this  was  the  man  that  had  been 

his  friend? It  must  be;  and  yet  how  could  it 

be?  There  was  in  his  heart  a  great  bitterness. 
He  could  not  understand 

Schuyler  had  turned  to  him. 

"Look  here,  Tom,"  he  began,  doggedly,  "be- 
fore you  begin,  I  wish  to  tell  you  that  it  is  use- 
less. Nothing  that  you  can  say  will  change  me  in 


220  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

the  slightest.  I've  made  up  my  mind;  and  my 
decision  is  unalterable." 

"Irrevocable,  is  the  word." 

"As  you  will I'm  sorry  if  the  course 

(I  choose  doesn't  seem  right  to  you — to  the  world 
— sometimes  even  to  myself — and  I'll  confess  to 
you  that  it  doesn't — But,  right,  or  wrong,  it's  the 
only  one  for  me,  and  I  must  take  it — must, 
whether  I  will  or  not.  So,  if  you've  come  for  a 
cigar  and  a  chat,  well  and  good.  But  if  for  any- 
thing else,  go  and  avoid  trouble." 

"I'm  looking  for  trouble,"  returned  Blake, 
quietly.  He  advanced  to  the  table  and  leaned 
against  it.  "Jack,"  he  exclaimed,  "you're  a  damned 
fcol.  There  was  some  excuse  for  the  others.  Par- 
rnalee  was  a  kid — Rogers  an  old  fool — Van  Dam — 
well,  absinthe  and  asininity  account  for  him.  And 
they  fell  to  their  fooldom  without  warning  to  guard 
them  or  precedent  to  shield  them.  But  you — 
open-eyed,  knowing  everything — forewarned  and 
forearmed, — walk  fatuously  to  your  doom  as  one' 
sheep  follows  another  over  a  precipice.  I  swear  I 
can't  even  yet  believe  that  it  isn't  all  a  dream.  I 
keep  pinching  myself  and  saying  to  myself  that 
in  the  morning  I'll  wake  up  and  go  around  and 


THE  BATTLE  221 

tell  old  Jack  all  about  it  as  being  a  good  joke. 
It's  an  uncanny,  filthy  sort  of  a  nightmare  as  it 
stands,  however."  He  turned  to  the  other; 
Schuyler  was  striding  up  and  down  the  room. 
''Old  man,"  he  pleaded,  quietly,  "what's  the  an- 
swer ?" 

Schuyler  stopped  in  his  walk.  Looking  at 
Blake,  he  remarked : 

"You've  never  loved.    You  couldn't  know." 

"Never  loved!"  cried  Blake,  scornfully. 
"Couldn't  know!  Hell!  You  make  me  tired! 
What  do  you  mean  by  debauching  and  degrading 
a  good,  pure  word  like  love  by  applying  it  to  this 
snaky,  bestial  fascination  of  yours.  You're  a 
fool!" 

Schuyler  advanced  upon  him,  threateningly. 

"Don't  you  call  me  that,  too,"  he  said, 
tensely. 

Blake  paid  no  heed. 

"Love!"  he  cried,  disgustedly.  "This 
sordid,  sodden  passion  of  yours  love !  Love  lives 
only  where  there  is  sympathy,  and  respect,  and 
mutual  understanding.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  have  any  respect  for  this  woman?  You 
know  well  you  haven't  a  bit  more  respect  for  her 


222  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

than  she  has  for  you,  and  that's  none.  Do  you 
mean  to  tell  me  there's  any  sympathy  between 
you?  No  more  than  there  is  between  a  snake  and 
a  bird.  And  you  aren't  capable  of  understanding 
her  any  more  than  she  is  of  understanding  you. 
Love !  It's  lust !  And  you  know  it !" 

Schuyler  had  dropped  into  a  chair.  Blake 
finished.  He  swung  toward  him. 

"Go  on !"  he  almost  hissed,  through  clenched 
teeth.  "Go  on !  If  you  can  tell  me  anything  that 
I  haven't  told  myself,  I'd  like  to  hear  it.  Tell  me 
what  you  think.  Tell  me  what  everyone  thinks. 
Put  into  words  the  scorn  and  contempt  that  I  see 
in  every  eye  that  looks  into  mine — in  every  mirror 
that  I  look  into.  Go  on !  Tell  me  something  else ! 
But  let  me  tell  you  one  thing!  When  Destiny 
can't  get  a  man  any  other  way,  she  sends  a  woman 
for  him And  the  woman  gets  him." 

Blake  looked  at  him. 

"A  fool  there  was';"  he  quoted.  Schuyler  In- 
terrupted. 

"Stop!"  he  commanded.  "Don't  you  sup- 
pose I  know  that  thing  by  heart — every  syllable — • 
every  letter  of  it  ?  Don't  you  suppose  I  know  what 
it  means — all  that  it  means — better  than  you  can 


THE  BATTLE  223 

ever  know?"  He  struck  his  forehead  with 
clenched  fist.  "Tell  me  the  things  that  lie  here !" 
his  voice  was  almost  a  scream.  "The  things  that 
lie  here,  and  burn,  and  burn,  and  burn !  Tell  me 
the  things  that  lie  here !"  He  struck  his  forehead 
again. 

"I'll  tell  you  this,"  said  Blake,  voice  cold, 
and  ringing.  "It  was  written  for  you  by  a  man 
who  knew  you;  and  you'll  listen." 

"No!"  protested  Schuyler.  He  started  to 
rise  from  his  chair.  But  Blake,  catching  him  by 
the  shoulders,  thrust  him  back,  holding  him  pin- 
ioned. 

"You  fool,"  he  remarked,  bitterly.  "You 
poor,  pitiful,  puling  fool !  'Honor,  and  faith,  and  a 
sure  intent' — a  wife,  a  child,  a  reputation,  a  charac- 
ter. 'Stripped  to  his  foolish  hide,'  the  poem  reads. 
But  you're  stripped  to  your  naked,  sodden  skele- 
ton. If  I  weren't  so  sorry  for  you,  I  could  cut 
your  throat.  When  I  think  of  the  little  girl — 
calling  you  daddy — honoring  you — loving  you — 
and  of  what  you've  done  for  her !  When  I  think 
of  your  wife — of  the  woman  who  went  through 
the  pains  of  childbirth  for  you — who  held  you 
sacred  in  that  great,  loving,  glorious  heart  of  hers 


224  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

— who  gave,  and  gave,  and  gave  asking  only  that 
there  might  be  the  more  to  give — You  say  that 
maybe  I  don't  know  what  love  is.  Well,  maybe 
I  don't — and  maybe  I  do.  There  are  some  things 
that  a  man  may  not  tell  his  best  friend — there  are 
some  things  that  a  man  may  not  even  tell  himself. 
But  I'm  different  from  you,  thank  God,  and  I  love 
differently." 

He  moved  back.  Schuyler  remained  seated. 
Leaden  eyes  had  in  them  now  a  new  light — the 
light  of  suffering  refined.  Blake  commanded: 

"Stand  up.  Look  me  in  the  eye,  as  man  to 
man — if  you  can." 

Swiftly  Schuyler  rose  to  his  feet.  The  two 
men  stood  face  to  face,  eye  to  eye. 

"Now,"  cried  Blake,  hope  in  his  heart — 
hope  ringing  in  his  voice,  "will  you  be  a  man,  or  a 
thing  that  earth,  nor  heaven,  nor  even  hell  has 
room  for?" 


CHAPTER  TWENTY-NINE. 

DEFEAT. 

Came  from  the  door  of  the  morning  room  a 
light,  ringing,  musical  laugh.  The  woman  stood 
there,  white  arms  extended  above  her  head,  hands 
resting  on  door  sides. 

Schuyler  fell  back  a  step.     Blake  turned. 

Again  she  laughed,  lightly,  ripplingly.  And 
then: 

"What  a  splendid  revivalist  was  lost  to  the 
world  when  your  friend  became  a  mere  broker!" 
And  to  Blake:  "Why  once  or  twice  I  myself  be- 
came almost  enthusiastic.  Really,  sir,  you  are  a 
most  convincing  speaker — though  if  you  will  par- 
don a  well-meant  criticism,  your  low  tones  are  a 
bit  harsh." 

There  was  in  Blake's  heart  a  great  bitter- 
ness. When  first  he  had  com.e  to  see  the  man 
that  had  been  his  friend,  there  had  been  in  his 
226 


DEFEAT  227 

breast  but  little  hope.  Later,  however,  he  had 
understood  better;  and  there  had  awakened  within 
him  an  idea  that  perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  not  too 

late — and  then  had  come  confidence,  and  the  de- 

» 
sire  to  fight.    And  he  had  fought.    He  had  almost 

won.  But  now,  he  knew  that  he  had  lost;  for  in 
Schuyler's  eyes  he  saw  dull,  hopeless  docility,  and 
in  The  Woman's,  conscious  power  and  strength 
beyond  measure. 

He  turned.  He  looked  at  this  woman  who- 
was  his  foe — his  victor. 

Slowly  he  said: 

"There  is  supposed  to  be  honor  among; 
thieves.  Apparently  there  is  none  among  liber- 
tines." 

He  took  his  hat  from  where  it  lay  amid  the 
confusion  of  the  table.  He  bowed,  first  to  the 
woman,  then  to  Schuyler.  He  was  a  proud  man — 
a  strong  man.  It  hurt  him  to  lose — and  the  more 

because  t?he  stake  had  been  so  great He 

passed  across  the  room,  and  through  the  door,' 
closing  it  behind  him. 

Upon  the  woman,  still  laughing  in  the  de- 
light of  her  success,  Schuyler  rounded.  There 
was  in  his  heart,  too,  a  great  bitterness — a  great 


228  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

hurt.  For  he,  too,  realized  how  near  he  had  been 
to  salvation — and  that  realization  made  the  pres- 
ent distance  seem  yet  greater  than  ever  before; 
and  God  alone  knew  how  great  that  was. 

"I  hope  you're  satisfied,"  he  remarked,  dully. 
"Now  even  he  has  gone.  You've  broken  the  last 
link  that  bound  me  to  the  life  that  was." 

Again  she  laughed,  ringingly,  merrily. 

Then  the  greatness  of  his  wrath  obsessed 
him. 

"Laugh !"  he  cried,  wildly.  "Laugh  at  your 
fool ! — the  helpless,  spineless,  soulless  fool  who 
does  your  bidding  even  to  the  depths  of  hell! 

Laugh ! Laugh ! "  Suddenly,  his 

body  seemed  to  wither.  He  leaned  weakly  against 

the  back  of  the  great  chair His  head  sunk 

slowly  upon  his  arms 

There  came  suddenly  from  the  stairway  a 
little,  delighted,  cry  in  childish  treble. 

"Daddy!     Daddy,  dear!" 

Schuyler,  head  buried,  thought  at  first  that 
it  was  but  within  himself  that  he  heard — that  it 
was  that  other  sense — that  unknown  sense — that 

had  called  him The  cry  came  again 

Slowly  he  raised  his  head,  and  looked 


DEFEAT  229 

A  great,  cold  clutch  tore  his  heart.  His 
veins  stiffened.  His  head  reeled.  He  staggered, 
back,  clutching  for  support,  at  the  chair.  Even 
this  had  come  to  him! 

It  was  she — his  daughter — the  child  of  his 
wife,  and  of  himself — the  child  that  had  been  his 
to  love  when  still  he  had  been  man. 

The  little  one  was  scampering  down  the 
stairs,  tiny  feet  pattering  upon  thick  carpet.  Her 
eyes  were  dancing;  her  lips  smiling;  there  was  in 
her  the  great,  unequivocating,  unquestioning! 
gladness  of  the  young. 

"Daddy!"  she  cried,  again,  all  delight. 
"Daddy,  dear!" 

He  hesitated ......  Then  swiftly  he  ran  to 

her,  seizing  her  in  eager,  thrilling  arms,  hiding 
her  face  against  his  breast,  that  she  might  not 
see — Yet  was  it  too  late. 

"Oh,  what  a  beautiful  lady,  daddy!"  cried 
the  little  one.  "Who  is  she  ?" 

He  gasped.  He  choked.  He  could  not  an- 
swer   The  woman  stood  looking  on,  smiling 

• — still  smiling. 

At  length  he  found  words : 


23o  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"How  did  you  come  here,  little  sweetheart?" 
he  asked. 

"I  runned  away,"  she  returned.  "I  was  in 
the  Park,  with  Mawkins.  I  left  her  while  she  was 

talking  to  a  p'liceman Oh,  daddy,  dear ! 

When  are  we  coming  home?  I  miss  you  so 
much !" 

The  woman  moved  forward,  eyes  upon  the 
kneeling,  soul-torn  man;  and  upon  the  little  child 
that  was  his. 

"Another  advocate !"  she  said.  "It  has  been 
skilfully  planned." 

"What  does  she  mean,  daddy?"  queried  the 
child. 

He  answered,  quickly: 

"Nothing,  dearie." 

The  woman  stepped  forward.  He  hurriedly 

drew  the  child  from  her Again  she  smiled, 

a  little There  were  some  things  that  she 

understood,  that  were  of  the  Known. 

The  child  was  speaking: 

"And,  daddy,"  she  said,  "mother  dear  isn't 
a  bit  well.  Mawkins  and  I  are  dreadfully  worried 
about  her." 


DEFEAT  231 

"What's  the  matter  with  mother?"  he  asked, 
quickly.  "Tell  me!" 

The  child  shook  her  head. 

"She  cries  most  all  the  time,"  she  replied. 
"And  when  I  ask  her  what  the  matter  is,  she  just 
shakes  her  head  and  says,  'Nothing,  dearie. 
Mother's  tired.'  But  people  don't  cry  because 
they're  tired,  do  they,  daddy?" 

He  did  not  answer.  Head  sunk  in  hands, 
the  bitterness  of  it  all — the  awful,  ghastly,  horror 
of  the  things  that  he  had  done — was  obsessing 
him  body  and  soul  and  brain  and  heart.  The  fires 
of  the  uttermost  hell  were  flaring  through  his  very 
being. 

Then  it  was  that  the  woman  beckoned  to  the 
child  of  the  man  that  belonged  to  her. 

"Come  here,  dear,"  she  said,  voice  modu- 
lated. The  man  might  not  hear  yet. 

The  child  hesitated. 

"I'd  rather  not,"  she  replied. 

The  woman  bent  forward,  swiftly,  undulat- 
ingly,  as  a  snake  strikes.  She  seized  the  child, 
clasping  her  to  her.  And  once,  twice,  thrice,  she 

kissed  her,  on  the  lips The  man  awoke.  He 

staggered  to  his  feet Through  the  door 


232  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

came  Blake.  He,  too,  saw;  and  while  he  did  not 
understand  all,  he  understood  enough. 

Across  the  room  he  sprang.  He  tore  the 
child  from  the  now  yielding  arms  of  the  woman ! 
Holding  tight  against  him  the  little  one  that  he 
loved  as  his  own,  he  turned  savagely  upon  the  man 
who  had  once  been  his  friend. 

"To  think  that  any  human  thing  could  sink 

so  low !"  he  almost  hissed And  he  was  gone. 

taking  with  him  the  child  he  loved. 

It  is  safe  to  play  with  a  soul  just  so  far — 
sometimes  it  is  safe  to  play  even  farther,  when  one 

really  knows  one's  strength The  woman  had 

possibly  overestimated  her  prowess — and  yet 
possibly  she  had  not — it  were  hard  to  tell  of  one 
who  knows  the  things  that  we  do  not — who  does 
not  know  the  things  that  we  do.  There  was  man- 
hood, and  honor,  and  decency  in  Schuyler  yet — a 
little,  of  a  sort.  He  struck  her  in  the  face — full 
upon  the  vivid,  crimson  lips — and  a  little  of  their 
crimson  seemed  to  leave  its  lair.  It  trickled  down 

upon  the  dead  whiteness  of  her  skin But 

she  still  smiled.  Her  white  arms  went  forth 
languorously.  Her  lithe,  slender,  beautiful  body 


DEFEAT  233 

undulated.  Her  eyes  were  on  his She  still 

smiled 

Again  he  struck  her Still  she  smiled 

Her  eyes  looked  into  his. 

He  raised  his  hand  to  strike  again The 

hand  did  not  fall Her  eyes  were  on  his;  and 

she  still  smiled She  gauged  her  power  well. 

Perhaps,  at  times,  she  flattered  it,  a  little — but 

never  much She  still  smiled Perhaps, 

it  was  that  which  she  desired.  It  were  hard  to  tell. 
For,  after  all 


CHAPTER  THIRTY. 

AND    ITS    CONSEQUENCES. 

Blake,  leaving  the  house,  lifted  Muriel  into 
the  big,  French  car  and  got  in  beside  her.  Her 
little  mind  was  in  great  puzzlement;  and  of  Blake 
she  began  to  ask  the  countless  questions  that  flew 
to  her  lips.  "Why  was  daddy  living  there,  when 
mother  dear  and  she  were  with  Aunt  Elinor?" 
"Who  was  the  lady  that  she  had  seen,  and  did  he 
know  her?"  "Was  daddy  living  there  all  alone, 
and  when  was  he  coming  to  live  with  them,  as  he 
used?"  and  many,  many  more. 

Some  of  them  Blake  answered  as  best  he 
could;  others  he  evaded.  His  heart  ached  within 

him  sorely Almost  he  wished  that  he  were 

a  woman;  the  relief  of  tears  would  have  meant 
much. 

With  childish,  wondering  question  sting- 
ing deeper  and  yet  more  deep,  he  watched  the 
235 


236  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

stream  of  traffic  swirl  past — car  and  cab,  brougham 
and  'bus.  They  were  on  the  Avenue — Fifth  Ave- 
nue, like  which  there  is  no  other  street  in  our 
land. 

On  they  went,  past  great  club,  past  rows  of 
magnificent  residences,  past  towering  church  and 
staid  old  dwelling.  They  came  at  length  to  the 
Plaza,  with  its  hotels,  and  glistening  statue.  The 
Park  lay  to  the  left,  a  thing  of  green,  with  its  arch- 
ing trees.  Uniformed  nurses  were  wheeling  little 
perambulators;  others  were  watching  active, 
tousled-headed  little  charges.  Anon  there  flashed 
past  a  group  of  galloping  riders. 

At  length  they  turned  into  a  side  street. 
The  car  stopped  before  a  house  of  brick  and  stone, 
with  wrought-iron  lattices.  Blake  got  out,  lifting 
the  child. 

The  butler  admitted  them.  Mrs.  VanVorst 
was  in,  he  said,  in  response  to  Blake's  query;  Mrs. 
Schuyler  was  out 

It  had  been  some  time  since  Blake  had  seen 
Kathryn.  She  had  been  very  ill,  very  ill — ill  al- 
most unto  death.  This  had  followed  the  receipt 
of  a  letter  from  John  Schuyler — a  letter  which 
made  futile  all  their  efforts  to  spare  her  suffering 


AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES  237 

— a  letter  in  which  he  had  been  condemned  of  his 
own  hand.  Dr.  DeLancey  had  labored  hard,  and 
well.  In  the  end  she  was  saved.  But  Dr.  De- 
Lancey was  an  old  man — a  very  old  man;  and, 
when  he  had  seen  that  she  was  saved,  he  himself 
had  passed  away.  Possibly  it  was  as  well;  for  he 
was  a  lonely  old  man,  you  know;  and  those  few 
whom  he  loved  had  brought  him  much  suffering. 
It  was  a  strange  letter,  that  letter  that  had 
wrought  so  much — a  letter  utterly  unlike  the  man 
who  wrote  it.  It  was,  in  part : 

" God  himself  only  knows  how  I  feel.    I  can 

scarce  believe  that  it  is  I  who  write.  And  yet  it  must 
be  I.  There  is  no  such  thing  as  redemption — no  such 
thing  as  hope — no  such  thing  as  palliation,  or  excuse. 
It  is  simply  an  end  of  me  that  is  not  death.  Would  to 
God  it  were.  Death  would  be  welcome — even  a  death 
of  torture  refined.  There  is  nothing  that  I  could  say 
that  you  would  understand  for  nothing  that  I  could  say 

would  I  myself  understand.    It  is  simply  the  end 

I  hope  I  am  insane.    Yet  I  fear  that  I  am  not I  am 

a  ship  without  a  rudder.  My  will  is  gone  from,  me;  I 
have  no  volition  of  my  own — no  soul — nothing.  All 
that  is  left  of  me  is  a  body,  and  the  power  still  to 
suffer,  and  for  the  rest,  only  a  great  emptiness,  and  a 
greater  pain." 

Kathryn  had  fainted,  when  she  received  that 
letter.  Then  fever  had  come,  and  with  it,  delirium. 
.Which  was  merciful.  For  weeks  she  lay  closer 


238  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

to  death  than  to  life Now  she  was  better; 

and  yet  far  from  well.  Violet  eyes  were  sad — dull. 
Brown-gold  flesh  was  pallid.  She  moved  with 
languor. 

For  weeks  no  word  of  all  that  meant  so 
much  was  spoken;  it  was  a  topic  carefully 
avoided. 

One  day  Kathryn  had  said  that  she  must 
go  to  see  Schuyler.  They  had  tried  to  dissuade 
her;  without  success.  This  was  to  have  been  the 
day.  So  Blake  himself  had  gone,  eager  to  bear  for 
her  the  shock,  should  there  be  a  shock  to  be  borne; 
and  if  not,  to  render  easy  her  going. 

Elinor  met  him  as  he  entered  the  drawing 
room.  He  set  the  child  down,  bidding  her  go  find 
her  nurse;  then  he  turned  to  Mrs.  VanVorst. 

"I  have  seen  him,"  he  said,  simply. 

She  looked  the  query  that  there  was  no  need 
for  lips  to  speak. 

He  shook  his  head. 

"It  is  impossible,"  he  declared.  "Quite  im- 
possible. She  was  there." 

"We  must  dissuade  Kathryn  from  going, 
then,"  said  Elinor. 

He  smiled,  grimly,  sadly. 


AND  ITS  CONSEQUENCES  239 

"It  will  not  be  hard,  I  fear.  Muriel  was 
there,  too." 

And  that  was  why  Kathryn  Schuyler  did  not 
go,  then,  to  John  Schuyler. 


240 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-ONE. 

THAT    WHICH    MEN    SAID. 

A  winter  had  come,  and  gone.  It  had  been 
a  bitter  winter,  and  a  cold.  For  Kathryn  Schuyler 
had  it  been  a  bitter  winter,  indeed.  Sick  of  heart, 
sick  of  body,  she  had  stayed  in  the  city,  going  out 
not  at  all,  seeing  of  all  her  friends  only  Blake,  try- 
ing with  all  her  pride,  with  all  her  strength,  to 
adjust  herself  to  the  new  order  of  things.  It  had 
been  a  weary  winter — a  winter  that  dragged  along 
on  laggard  feet,  loitering,  waiting. 

The  love  of  Muriel,  the  sympathy  of  Elinor, 
the  devotion  of  Blake  were  in  it  the  only  bits  of 
brightness.  She  felt  strange — lost — astray.  By 
day,  she  was  dull,  listless.  At  night  sometimes, 
she  slept  a  little;  at  others  she  would  bury  her 
face  in  her  tumbled  pillow,  and  her  lithe  body 
would  heave  with  the  wracking  of  her  sobs;  for  the 
entire  structure  of  her  life  had  been  ruthlessly  torn 
241 


242  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

down  by  the  hand  of  one  man.  It  seemed  to  her, 
that  from  its  ruin  nothing  might  ever  be  erected. 

She  told  this  to  Blake,  one  day.  Side  by 
side,  they  had  been  sitting  by  the  window,  gazing 
out  into  a  sleet-swept  street  where  horses  slipped 
and  slid,  and  hurrying  foot-passengers  passed  with 
heads  buried  in  collars,  or  furs. 

He  had  said  but  little  in  reply — merely  that 
there  are  things  in  this  world  that  we  do  not  know, 
and  that  happiness  sometimes  come  whence  we 
least  expect  it.  He  did  not  say  these  things  with 
any  great  degree  of  confidence.  In  his  own  life, 
there  had  been  but  little  save  longing  unsatisfied, 
prayers  ungranted.  But  she  took  from  it  com- 
fort— even  though  there  seemed  in  it  so  pitifully 
little  from  which  comfort  might  be  derived.  Per- 
haps it  was  the  way  in  which  he  said  it;  or  perhaps 
it  was  because  it  was  he  who  said  it. 

However,  winter  at  length  dragged  out  its 
weary  life  to  its  weary  end.  Spring  came,  and 
with  it  the  soft  green  of  the  new  born  grass,  and 
the  lighter  shoots  of  crocus,  and  lily,  and  the  buds 
of  the  trees.  Spring  grew;  and  the  stolid  phalanx 
of  city  homes  began  to  don  their  summer  armor 
of  boards,  and  blinds  and  shaded  windows. 


THAT  WHICH  MEN  SAID  243 

And  then  the  Larchmont  place  was  opened. 
John  Schuyler  had  sent  to  Kathryn  the  deed  of  it; 
the  one  request  that  he  had  made  was  that  she 
continue  to  live  there — that  she  take  Muriel  there. 

During  all  this  time  no  word  of  him  had 
come  to  her.  Blake  had  heard.  But  no  word  had 
he  said  to  Kathryn,  because  of  the  things  that  he 
had  heard.  A  man  of  the  breadth  of  acquaintance, 
of  the  breadth  of  interests,  that  was  John  Schuy- 
ler's  may  not  fall  to  desuetude  unwatchful.  And 
Blake  heard,  at  clubs,  at  theatres,  wherever  men 
congregate,  of  Schuyler,  and  of  the  life  that  was 
his.  And  he,  as  little  as  they,  could  explain. 

Schuyler  was  drinking,  they  told  him — 
drinking  hard.  The  woman?  Was  she  still  in 
New  York?  Yes;  she  had  been  seen  at  the  opera; 
she  had  been  seen  driving  in  the  Mall.  A  damna- 
ble strange  case,  the  whole  thing.  Grewsome! 
And,  save  Blake,  they  would  wash  the  taste  of  it 
all  from  their  mouths  with  liquor.  Devilishly  good 
fellow,  Schuyler.  Brainy,  too.  He  would  have 
been  one  of  the  big  men  of  the  country,  if  it  hadn't 
been  for  this. 

A  chance  to  save  him?  They  shook  their 
heads,  and  smiled,  grimly.  You  know  how  it  is, 


244  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

yourself.  When  a  man  gets  into  the  hands  of  a 
woman  like  that,  what  can  you  do  ?  Say  anything 
against  her,  and  you  have  to  fight  him.  Tell  him 
he's  a  fool  and  he  tells  you  to  mind  your  own 
business.  Try  to  reason  with  him,  then?  If  the 
man  had  any  reason  left  in  him,  there  would  be 
no  occasion  to  reason.  It's  hard,  true.  But  your 
hands  are  tied.  It's  just,  "Good-bye,"  and  a 

prayer  for  the  next  man So  they  reasoned. 

And  could  Blake  say  that  they  were  wrong? 
......  Could  you  ? 


245 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-TWO. 

IN    THE    GARDEN. 

Kathryn  stood  beside  the  blossom-laden  ar- 
bor, culling  fragrant  tender  blossoms  from  the 
wealth  before  her.  Beside  her,  Muriel,  little  skirt 
upheld,  received  them. 

"Alother,  dear,"  said  the  child,  at  length. 

"Yes,  honey?" 

"Does  God  make  roses?" 

"Yes,  dearie." 

"Who  made  God?" 

Her  mother  smiled. 

"He  made  Himself.  God  makes  everything, 
dearie." 

With  troubled  brows  the  little  one  asked : 

"Did  God  sit  down  when  He  made  His 
feet?" 

Came  from  the  house  Elinor.     She  moved 
lithely,  swiftly,  now.    The  old  tan  had  come  back 
to  her  cheek;  she  was  no  longer  an  invalid. 
246 


IN  THE  GARDEN  247 

"More  roses,  Kate?"  she  asked,  brightly. 

Kathryn  nodded. 

"Yes,"  she  said.  "It  seems  almost  brutal  to 
cut  them,  doesn't  it?  But  I  love  them  in  my 
room;  and  they  won't  grow  there." 

"Then  sleep  out  here.  It's  quit?  the  thing, 
nowadays." 

Kathryn  smiled  a  little. 

"You're  so  frightfully  lacking  in  sensibili- 
ties, Nell." 

"And,"  returned  her  practical  sister,  "a  lot 
more  comfortable  because  I  am."  She  seated 
herself.  "Tom's  back,"  she  announced. 

A  quick  little  gleam  of  gladness  sprang  to 
the  violet  eyes. 

"Is  he?" 

Elinor  nodded,  nonchalantly. 

"Yes,  that  floating  palace  of  his  dropped 
anchor  about  ten  minutes  ago.  They  were  low- 
ering a  launch  as  I  came  downstairs." 

"Oh!"  cried  Muriel,  excitedly  dropping  the 
roses  to  the  lawn.  "There  he  is  now !  I  can  hear 
him  winding  up  his  boat!" 

She  rang  at  headlong  speed  through  the  ar- 
bor way.  Another  moment  and  Blake  had  en- 


248  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

tered,  carrying  her  in  his  arms.  Kathryn  ex- 
tended her  hand  to  him;  he  took  it  in  warm,  firm, 
friendly  clasp.  Elinor  nodded. 

"  'Lo,  Tom,"  was  her  salutation. 

"'Lo,  Nell,"  he  returned.  "You're  getting 
fat." 

"The  same  to  you,  and  many  of  'em,"  she 
replied.  "Have  a  good  time?" 

"Oh,  the  same  old  sea-saw."  He  shrugged 
broad  shoulders.  "This  running  a  sailors'  board- 
ing house  isn't  what  it's  cracked  up  to  be.  We  hit 
a  three-day  executive  session  of  a  northeast  storm 
off  the  Banks  that  kept  us  exceedingly  busy. 
Everyone  on  board  was  seasick — except  the 
cook." 

"Tom,"  interrupted  Kathryn,  "I  wish  you'd 
come  into  the  library  a  moment.  My  lawyers  have 
sent  me  some  papers  to  sign  and  return,  and  I 
can't  make  head  nor  tail  of  them." 

"Of  course  you  can't,"  he  said,  assuringly. 
"I  never  know  what  my  lawyers  are  doing.  If  I 
did,  I'd  fire  them  and  do  it  myself.  And  they 
realize  it.  A  lawyer  can  order  a  fried  eerg,  cooked 
on  one  side  only,  and  make  it  sound  like  a  royal 
proclamation  announcing  a  total  change  of  the 


IN  THE  GARDEN  249 

currency  system.  They're  like  doctors  and  clair- 
voyants. Their  graft  lies  in  being  mysterious. 
Why  does  a  doctor  call  pink  eye  muco  puerpurol 
conjunctivitis?  Because  pink  eye  is  not  worth  more 
than  a  dollar  at  the  outside;  but  when  he  hands 
you  muco  puerpural  conjunctivitis,  he  can  get 
twenty-five  at  least  before  you  wake  up  and  say, 
'Where  am  I?'" 

His  humor,  perhaps,  was  forced;  possibly 
there  was  nothing  funny  in  what  he  said;  but  they 
laughed.  There  was  always  a  tension  at  "Grey 
Rocks,"  now — always  a  strain.  It  needed  little 
to  relieve  it;  it  needed  that  little  badly.  Blake 
gave  to  that  little  all  that  he  could. 

Even  the  child  felt  the  tension,  and  the  strain 
of  it.  She  could  not  have  told  what  it  was;  but 
she  missed  something  beside  her  daddy,  infinite 
was  her  longing  for  him,  and  her  loneliness  with- 
out him. 

At  times  she  used  to  beg  the  dignified  Rob- 
erts to  play  buck-jump,  and  tag,  with  her,  as 
"daddy  used  to  do."  And  this  she  did  while  Blake 
and  her  mother  and  her  Aunt  Elinor  were  in  the 
library,  going  over  the  troublesome  papers  with 
their  imposing  seals  and  undecipherable  writing. 


250  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"I've  been  looking  for  you  everyw'ere,  Miss 
Muriel,"  the  butler  announced,  impressively. 
Everything  that  Roberts  did  was  impressive. 

"Were  you,  Woberts?"  she  queried.  "You 
didn't  want  to  play  hide-and-go  seek,  did  you, 
Woberts?  Because  if  you  did,  I'd  like  to  heaps 
and  heaps." 

He  opened  his  lips  in  protest;  but  she  inter- 
rupted : 

"I'll  be  it,  Woberts,  and  you  can  run  and 
hide.  Oh!  Will  you?" 

What  could  he  say?  It  hurt  his  dignity — it 
was  a  distinct  prostitution  of  pride — and  yet,  what 
could  he  say?  What  could  he  do?  For  he,  too, 
loved,  pitied,  and  was  sorry. 

Thus  it  was  that,  returning  from  the  library, 
Kathryn,  Elinor  and  Blake  came  upon  a  red-faced 
and  puffing  butler  engaged  in  giving  a  most  realis- 
tic imitation  of  a  bear,  while  a  delighted  little  girl, 
clapping  tiny  hands  in  glee,  adjured  him  to  growl 
as  bears  growl,  not  as  cows  growl. 

It  was  another  welcome  little  break  in  the 
tension.  And  for  that  it  was  welcome;  welcome, 
that  is,  to  all  but  him  of  the  outraged  dignity. 
And  even  he,  though  he  puffed  and  huffed  below, 


IN  THE  GARDEN  251 

stairs,  deep  down  in  his  heart  was  glad  that  he 
had  sacrificed  his  most  precious  possession  in  such 
a  cause. 


2^2 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-THREE. 

TEMPTATION. 

Elinor  VanVorst  swung  around  in  her  chair, 
and  eyed  her  sister. 

"Well,  Kate?"  she  asked. 

Kate  raised  violet  eyes  in  protest. 

"Please,  Nell,  don't  insist,"  she  begged.  "I 
don't  want  to  talk  about  it." 

Her  sister  continued,  firmly: 

"It  must  be  talked  of You  must  di-« 

vorce  him,  Kate." 

"No!" 

"But  I  say,  'Yes!'  You  should  hear  what 
people  are  saying  about  you." 

"What  do  I  care  what  people  are  saying 
about  me?  It's  what  I  think  of  myself  that 
counts." 

"That  may  be  true,"  her  sister  retorted; 
"but  it's  too  idealistic  for  this  world More- 
over, you're  not  consistent." 
253 


254  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

Kathryn  looked  up,  quickly. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  demanded. 

Elinor  shrugged  her  shoulders,  a  little  and 
answered : 

"You're  compromising.  You're  hedging. 
If  he  isn't  good  enough  to  live  with,  he  isn't  good 
to  be  married  to." 

"But,"  Kathryn  protested.  "I  can't  live 
with  him,  Nell!  You  know  as  well  as  I  hew  im- 
possible that  is." 

"Then,"  returned  Elinor,  rising,  "divorce 
him." 

Kathryn  shook  her  head,  wearily. 

"I  can't  do  that,  either." 

The  other  turned. 

"Then  what  are  you  going  to  do?"  she  de- 
manded? "Are  you  going  on  forever  being  hon- 
est neither  with  him  nor  with  yourself — compro- 
mising on  the  one  hand  with  your  womanhood, 
on  the  other  with  your  selfishness?  How  long 
has  it  been  since  you  made  the  slightest  effort  to 
see  him,  or  to  send  anyone  to  him?" 

Kathryn  answered,  slowly: 

"Not  since  the  time  I  tried  to  go,  and  Torn 
went  before  me.  I — I  have  thought,  often,  of  go- 


TEMPTATION  255 

ing But,  somehow,  I've  been — afraid."  In 

almost  a  whisper,  she  repeated,  "Yes 

Afraid !" 

Elinor  VanVorst  raised  her  shoulders  in  an 
expressive  gesture.  It  conveyed  more  plainly  than 
could  words  that  her  end  of  the  argument  was 
done — her  case  was  rested. 

Kathryn  considered  long,  earnestly,  in  si- 
lence. Divorce  him !  Divorce  John  Schuyler !  It 
had  occurred  to  her — it  had  occurred  to  her  in  the 
long  silences  of  the  night — in  the  thousands  of 
aeons  that  had  lain,  ofttimes,  between  the  setting 

of  the  sun  and  the  rising  thereof Divorce 

him ! It  was  a  thought  that  stung.  He  had 

been  to  her  all  that  any  man  could  have  been.  He 
had  been  a  man  of  whom  her  head  was  proud  and 
her  heart  fond  with  the  great  love  that  lies  in  the 
heart  of  a  good  woman.  He  it  was,  and  God,  who 
had  given  her  the  little  child  that  she  could  see 
from  where  she  sat,  rolling,  a  tumbled  little  heap 
of  white  lace  and  whirling  brown  legs  on  the  broad 
expanse  of  the  green  lawn.  He  it  was  who  had 
taken  the  first  of  her  life — who  had  shown  her 
what  it  was  to  live 

And  then  this  thing  had  come — this  awful, 


256  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

hideous  thing  that  had  stretched  even  her  very  life 
to  the  breaking  point,  and  drained  from  it  the 

wealth  of  sweetness  to  the  uttermost  drop 

She  felt  resentment,  yes,  and  horror,  and  disgust. 
Yet  there  were  other  things,  she  knew,  though  she 
could  not  have  told  how  she  knew.  There  was 
something  that  was  hidden — something  unknown 
and  unknowable 

Long,  she  thought,  and  earnestly — as  she 
had  thought  so  many,  many  times  before — times 

without  end At  length  she  rose.  Firm  little 

chin  was  set;  violet  eyes  were  firm. 

She  said,  slowly: 

"I  think  I  see  your  point,  Nell.  You're 
right." 

"And  you'll  divorce  him?" 

Kathryn  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  replied  softly,  "I'll  go  to  him." 

Elinor  started. 

"What!"  she  cried,  untrustful  of  her  own 
cars. 

"I  have  failed  in  my  duty;  you  have  shown 
me  wherein  I  have  failed.  I'll  go  to  him." 

Elinor  caught  her  hand. 

"Kate !"  she  pleaded.     "Kate,  dear,  listen  to 


TEMPTATION  257 

me !  I  haven't  shown  you  your  duty  if  that's  what 
you  consider  your  duty I'll  tell  you  some- 
thing that  you  haven't  thought  of Muriel." 

In  almost  a  gasp,  her  sister  cried : 

"Muriel! Muriel!" 

"Can  you  take  her  with  you?"  demanded 
Elinor. 

Kathryn  shook  her  head. 

"No,"  she  replied.  "Of  course  not.  I  shall 
leave  her  here,  with  you." 

Her  sister  shook  her  head. 

"Do  you  see?"  she  queried.  "Can  you  go 
to  him,  and  live  with  him,  as  wife?"  Kathryn 
made  no  answer.  Again  Elinor  shook  her  head, 
gently.  "Don' t  you  understand,"  she  asked. 
"It's  compromise  on  compromise — hedging  on 
hedging.  Can't  you  see  how  impossible  it  all  is? 
how  utterly  impossible  ?" 

Torn  of  anguish,  of  inability  to  solve  the 
problems  that  God  had  laid  before  her,  Kathryn 
turned  beseeching  eyes  to  her  sister. 

"But  what  shall  I  do,  Nell?"  she  asked,  be- 
seechingly. "What  can  I  do Wasn't  it  hard 

enough,  even  that  way?" 

Elinor  replied,  gently: 


258  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Too  hard.  I  want  to  make  it  easier.  I 
want  you  to  leave  him  irrevocably.  Then  you  can 
forget  him;  but  not  until  then." 

Kathryn  was  silent. 

"What  does  Tom  say  ?"  she  asked,  at  length. 
She  had  learned  to  depend  much  upon  the  big- 
bodied,  big-hearted,  big-minded  friend  of  late. 

"I  haven't  asked  him,"  returned  her  sister. 
"But  I  will,  now." 

She  rose,  quickly,  and  went  to  the  rose- 
strewn  arbor-way.  She  could  see  Blake,  out  upon 
the  broad  lawn,  playing  with  the  child  that  he 
loved,  boyish,  natural,  whole-souled,  with  all  the 
enthusiasm  unspoiled  that  God  gives  not  to  many 
who  are  grown. 

'Tom!"  she  called. 

"Yes?"  he  answered. 

"Will  you  come  here,  to  us,  for  a  moment? 
Let  Muriel  stay  with  Mawkins." 

"Right,  oh !"  he  called,  cheerily.  In  another 
moment  he  stood  in  the  opening  of  the  arbor,  hair 
rumpled,  clothing  awry. 

"Well?"  he  asked,  inquiringly. 

Elinor  began,  slowly : 

"Tom.  Kate  ?nd  I  have  been  talking,  ser- 


TEMPTATION  259 

iously.  I  want  her  to  leave  John  Schuyler — 
legally  leave  him — leave  him  for  all  time.  It's  the 
only  fair — the  only  right — thing  to  do.  I'm  not 
going  to  argue.  It  is  all  sufficiently  plain.  She 
can't  live  with  him;  and  yet,  as  long  as  she  is  his 
wife,  she  has  no  right  to  be  away  from  him.  And 
she  can  never  go  to  him. 

"She  wants  your  opinion,  Tom,"  she  went 
on.  "She's  always  respected  your  judgment  more 
than  mine — more  than  that  of  anyone  save  the 
man  upon  whom  she  may  never  depend  again." 

Kathryn  had  wandered  to  where  the  white 
blooms  clustered  thickest.  She  was  thinking — 
thinking  deeply,  bitterly.  Elinor  drew  closer  to 
Blake. 

"I  like  you,  Tom,"  she  said,  softly.  "You're 
a  good  man — a  decent  man — a  clean  man — and 

they're  mighty  scarce  these  days All  that 

Kate  may  have  owed  to  John  Schuyler,  she  long 

since  paid  to  the  last  sad  penny All  your  life 

you  have  been  paying  the  things  that  you  did  not 
owe There  is  happiness,  somewhere;  a  hap- 
piness that  can  be  found."  She  thrust  out  her 
hand.  "Tell  her  what  to  do,"  she  said.  "Tell  her 
the  right  thing  to  do — the  thing  that  should  be 


260  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

done."  And  she  turned  on  her  heel,  and  went 
away. 

For  a  long,  long  time  Blake  stood  motion- 
less. Of  that  which  was  going  on  within  his  soul, 
no  one  might  know.  The  expression  of  his  face 
remained  the  same,  and  of  his  body.  Only  his 
hands  clenched,  and  unclenched,  and  clenched 
again.  It  was  a  difficult  position  in  which  he 
found  himself — how  difficult  only  he  might  know. 
There  lay  before  him  a  vast,  spreading  vista  of 
golden  possibility — a  possibility  of  which  he  had 
never  dared  to  think — even  to  dream.  Possibly 
it  were  but  a  possibility — and  yet  surely  it  was 
that.  A  word  from  him  would  so  make  it.  That 

he  knew.    On  the  other  hand 

For   yet   a    longer    time,    he    stood,    hands 

clenching,  unclenching,  clenching Slowly  he 

went  to  where  the  woman  he  loved  stood,  slender 
white  fingers  plucking  nervously  at  bending  blos- 
soms of  fragrant  whiteness. 

She  turned,  a  little.    Violet  eyes  slowly  lifted 

He    looked    into    their    depths His 

hands  clenched,  and  unclenched  more  swiftly. 

"Kate,"    he    said,    at    length,    slowly,    very 
slowly,  "do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  what  to  do?" 


TEMPTATION  261 

She  answered,  with  infinite  weariness: 

"I — I  don't  know,  Tom I'm  tired — so, 

so  tired "  And  then,  abruptly:  "Tell  me 

Yes,  tell  me.  What  shall  I  do?" 

She  waited,  deep  eyes  lifted,  little  head 
poised  wearily  upon  white,  rounded  throat. 

He  answered,  very  slowly — with  effort  that 
even  he  could  not  conceal : 

"Kate,  do  you  remember  that  day  in  June, 
eight  years  ago,  when  you  walked  down  the  aisle 
of  Old  Trinity.  Do  you  remember  how  the  sun 
shone  in  at  the  windows,  flecking  the  darkness  of 
the  old  pews  with  golden  motes?  John  Schuyler 
met  you  at  the  altar;  and  to  him  you  said,  'For 
better  or  for  worse,  in  sickness  and  in  health,  till 
death  us  do  part.'  " 

Gently  he  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder, 
with  great  tenderness. 

"Stick,  Kate,"  he  advised,  softly.     "Stick." 

And  that  was  all. 


262 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FOUR. 

THE    SHROUD    OF    A    SOUL. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Blake,  again,  was 
to  go  to  him  first.  Little  had  been  heard  of  John 
Schuyler,  of  late.  A  drop  to  desuetude  may  of  its 
last  half  be  far  more  silent  than  of  its  first.  One 
gathers  momentum,  as  one  descends,  whether  the 
descent  be  physical,  or  moral.  At  the  inception 
comes  the  gradual  slipping — the  vast,  frantic  effort 
to  stay  that  slipping — the  exertion,  the  hysteria, 
the  fright,  the  remorse,  the  stretching  out  of 

hands  to  aid  and  of  souls  to  help Then, 

things  become  different.  There  comes  a  vast  si- 
lence. The  hands  draw  back;  the  souls  are  hidden; 
and  when  Hope  itself  lifts  its  pinions  and  soars 
away,  then  there  be  little  left  indeed. 

John  Schuyler,  deserted  of  friends,  deprived 
of  all  usefulness  in  the  life  that  he  had  loved,  found 
it  to  be  so;  and,  finding,  tried  to  think  no  more 
263 


264  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

If  only  the  Great  God  would  take  from  him 

his  brain ! But  He  did  not 

All  were  gone  from  him  now  save  She — The 
Woman.  The  doctor  came  occasionally  when 
summoned  by  Parks — Parks  who  had  known  and 
loved  in  other  days.  And  the  coming  of  the  doc- 
tor, and  of  Her,  were  the  only  things  that  marked 
the  beginning  of  the  days,  and  the  ending  thereof. 
He  lived  in  the  study  a  part  of  the  time,  a  part 
of  the  time  in  his  rooms.  The  rest  of  the  house 
knew  him  not;  and  the  great  out-of-doors,  even  in 
its  warrenated  streets  of  the  city,  but  seldom. 
And  from  the  study,  at  least,  all  save  She  were 
excluded. 

He  had  been  worse  that  day — much  worse. 
Parks  had  stayed  indoors  all  day,  listening.  As 
night  came  on,  he  had  become  frightened.  The 
telephone  in  the  hall  had  been  out  of  order;  and 
he  had  taken  upon  himself  the  liberty  of  entering 
the  forbidden  demesne;  for  the  doctor  must  be 
called. 

The  door  of  the  library-study  creaked  as  he 

opened  it He  stopped  upon  the  threshold, 

aghast. 

This  could  not  be  the  same  room  that  he  had 


THE  SHROUD  OF  A  SOUL         265 

seen  so  short  a  time  before.  He  looked  about 
him,  in  horrified  disbelief.  Before  him  there  lay 
the  very  essence  of  dirt  and  disorder.  Furniture 
was  broken,  overturned.  Rugs  were  askew, 
wrinkled.  The  desk,  upbearing  broken  bottles 
and  a  cluttered  mess  of  paper,  letter  and  debris 
of  all  description,  was  scratched  and  dented.  Pic- 
tures sagged  drunkenly  upon  the  walls;  hangings 
were  torn,  and  draggled,  and  over  all  lay  a  pall 
of  dust,  dank,  choking. 

Slowly,  dreadingly,  horror  gripping  his 
heart,  Parks  crossed  the  room  to  the  desk.  He 
picked  up  the  telephone  from  where  it  rested  amid 
the  litter  and  placed  the  receiver  to  his  ear.  The 
voice  of  the  operator  came  to  him  across  the  wire. 

"Hello,"  he  called,  "Give  me  2290  Plaza, 
please." 

At  length  there  came  to  him  an  answer.  He 
inquired : 

"Is  this  Dr.  Crenelle's  office?"  It  was  the 
doctor  himself.  "This  is  Parks — Mr.  Schuyler's 

secretary He  is  worse — much  worse 

You  had  better  send  someone  to  take  care  of  him. 
I  am  going  away Yes,  that's  all.  Good- 
bye." 


26>  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

Hanging  up  the  receiver,  Parks  sought  amid 
the  -onfusion  of  the  desk  for  a  sheet  of  paper,  and 
envelope.  At  length  he  found  them;  but  the  pens 
on  the  desk  were  beyond  use,  and  the  ink-stands 
dried  and  dusty. 

It  had  taken  Parks  a  long  time  to  come  to 
the  decision  that  he  should  leave  this  house. 
Long,  and  faithfully,  and  well  had  he  served  John 
Schuyler.  He  had  served  him  gladly,  and  given 
of  his  best.  And,  until  It  had  come,  had  he  re- 
ceived besides  generous  pecuniary  rewards,  the 
more  grateful  compensation  of  pleasant  treatment, 
consideration,  good-fellowship,  friendliness.  He 
could  not  have  cared  more  for  John  Schuyler  had 
he  been  of  kin  to  him But  the  disintegra- 
tion of  a  man's  soul,  and  brain,  and  body,  is  not  a 
pleasant  thing  to  watch.  It  had  come  to  a  place 
where  Parks,  in  his  heart,  felt  that  he  could  do  no 
more.  For  the  rest,  there  was  nothing  to  detain 
him  longer. 

At  first  Parks,  as  most,  had  come  to  think 
that  the  man  was  innately  a  libertine,  awaiting  but 
the  right  one  to  strike  the  hidden  flint  and  set  the 
tinder  aglow — the  tinder  that  would  burn,  and 
consume,  and  destroy.  He  had  known  of  men 


THE  SHROUD  OF  A  SOUL          267 

like  that — of  men  who  went  the  even  pathway  of 
their  lives  until  there  crossed  it  another  who  tore 
them  from  it;  and  that  one  they  followed,  leaving 
soul  and  morals  and  decency  and  cleanliness  for- 
ever behind  them.  This,  at  first,  he  had  thought 
to  be  John  Schuyler.  For  the  woman  was  beau- 

.tiful — beautiful  as  an  animal  is  beautiful 

But  then  he  had  not  been  so  sure.  His  confi- 
dence had  been  shaken;  for  she  had  looked  into  his 
eyes,  too,  playfully;  and  he  had  felt  his  very  being 
rock  upon  its  foundation,  and  he  had  slunk  away, 

chilled,  helpless,  horror-ridden After  that 

he  had  avoided  her.  She  had  paid  no  attention  to 
him 

So  the  anger — the  disgust — the  resentment 
that  at  first  he  had  felt  had  at  length  been  altered 
to  sorrow,  and  grief,  and  pity  beyond  utterance 

Yet  there  had  been  nothing  that  he  could 

do — nothing He  could  not  sleep,  of  nights 

It  was  killing  him,  too 

Upon  the  soiled,  rumpled  sheet  he  wrote 

Came  a  noise  behind  him.  He  looked  up, 

quickly,  frightenedly It  was  Blake;  and 

quick  relief  sprang  to  the  clean-cut  face. 

But  the  horror  of  it  was  in  Blake's.     Even 


268  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

as  had  Parks',  his  eyes  wandered  dreadingly  about 
the  room.     The  horror  of  it  all  was  in  his  soul, 

too For  a  long  time  he  said  no  word.     He 

only  looked.     He  thrust  the  curtains  aside 

The  dust,  impalpable,  strangling,  fell  about  him 


"Good  God!"  he  muttered.  "Good  God  in 
heaven !" 

He  saw  Parks. 

"Has  it  been  like  this  for  long?"  he  asked. 

Parks  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered And 

then:  "It  must  have  been.  The  servants  are  all 
gone." 

"Servants  gone?" 

"Yes;  there's  been  no  one  below  stairs  for  a 
fortnight.  .  They  irritated  him,  and  he  discharged 
them,  one  and  all." 

"His  valet?" 

"Went  last  night.  I  go  to-morrow 

To  have  known  him  as  he  was — and  then  to  see 
him  as  he  is — I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer." 

There  was  a  pause.  Blake  looked  about  him. 
At  length  he  spoke : 

"Does — she  come  here,  now?" 


THE  SHROUD  OF  A  SOUL          269 

"Seldom.     No  one  else  ever  comes.    It's  a 
lonely  place,  sir — frightfully  lonely." 
.     "And  he?" 

"Drink,  if  you  will  pardon  me — and  remorse. 
He  seems  bent  only  upon  forgetting  everything. 
Try  as  I  will  I  can't  keep  the  brandy  from  him. 
All  day — all  night — he  drinks,  and  drinks,  and 
tries  to  forget." 

Blake  nodded.     "I  see." 

Parks  continued: 

"At  first  it  made  him  drunk,  and  he  slept. 
But  now  it  seems  only  to  numb  his  senses.  I  hear 
him  all  through  the  night  muttering — muttering. 
I  hear  him  cursing  himself — cursing  everything, 
everybody — cursing  her — that  woman — then  call- 
ing to  her — calling — calling — It's  horrible !" 

Blake  again  nodded. 

"I  had  heard,"  he  said.    "But  I  didn't  dream 

it  was  as  bad  as  this It  is  too  late,  then,  you 

think — too  late  to  do  anything?  I  had  thought 
that  if  we  should  wait — until  she  was  tired — as 
such  as  she  must  tire  sooner  or  later " 

"Too  late?"  repeated  Park-.  "It  has  al- 
ways been  too  late.  It  was  too  late  from  the  first. 
I  was  with  him,  you  know." 


270  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"Yes — abroad.     I  had  forgotten." 

Parks  exclaimed,  almost  fiercely: 

"I  wish  to  God  I  could !  He  was  a  man,  sir 
— a  man !"  Then,  in  quick  transition :  "I  beg 
your  pardon.  But  I  was  very  fond  of  him."  He 
placed  the  resignation  that  he  had  written  fair  in 
the  center  of  the  desk.  He  turned  to  go. 

Blake  called  after  him: 

"You  are  leaving?" 

Parks  nodded. 

"Don't  you  think  you'd  better  stay  a  little 
longer?  You  can  help  him." 

Parks  shook  his  head;  there  was  in  his  voice 
a  great  sadness. 

"No  one  can  help  him  now.  It  is  too  late 
..Too  late." 


2/1 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-FIVE. 

THE   THING   THAT   WAS   A   MAN. 

Schuyler  came  down  the  stairs  slowly,  lean- 
ing heavily  against  the  broken  balustrade.  He 
laughed  a  little,  wildly,  with  the  mirthless  chill 
that  is  of  a  maniac.  His  knees  bent;  he  stag- 
gered  And  he  laughed  again 

At  first  Blake  did  not  know  him Then, 

knowing,  he  could  not  believe  that  his  eyes 

brought  to  his  brain  the  truth This  was  not 

John  Schuyler.  It  could  not  be  John  Schuyler. 
It  was  not  possible.  John  Schuyler  was  at  least  a 
man — not  a  palsied,  pallid,  shrunken,  shriveled 
caricature  of  something  that  had  once  been  hu- 
man. .  .  .John  Schuyler  had  hands — not  nerveless, 

shaking  talons This  sunken-eyed,  sunken- 

cheeJced,  wrinkled  thing  was  not  John  Schuyler — 

this    thing    that    crawled,    quiveringly — from    the 

loose,  pendulous  lips  of  which  came  mirth  that  was 

272 


THE  THING  THAT  WAS  A  MAN     273 

more  bitter  to  hear  than  the  sobs  of  a  soul  con- 
demned. 

Blake's  soul  was  curdled;  his  senses  were 
numbed;  but  still  his  eyes  could  look. 

The  ghastly  figure  stopped  in  the  moonlight, 
at  the  landing  of  the  stairs.  White,  claw-like  hand 
clutched  at  the  drunken  curtain  and  ripped  it  from 
its  fastenings.  The  pale  light  of  the  moon  fell 
harsh  upon  it Blake  shut  his  eyes 

When  again  he  looked,  the  figure  was  at  the 

desk,  fumbling  with  a  key A  drawer 

screeched  in  protest.  Came  from  it  a  rattling  as 

a  cadaverous  hand  drew  forth  a  bottle And 

the  thing  that  had  been  John  Schuyler  guzzled. 

It  laughed  again,  then,  in  hollow,  mad  glee. 
It  staggered  forward.  Its  hollow  eyes  fell  upon 
the  letter  that  Parks  had  left.  Clutching  fingers 
unsteadily  tore  end  from  envelope — drew  letter 
from  covering,  and  hollow,  leaden  eyes  gazed. 

Came  another  wild  burst  of  laughter  gone 
mad.  A  voice,  thick,  weak,  mufHed,  weird,  said : 

"Another  enveloped  insujlt.  From  Parks, 
the  good  and  faithful  Parks."  Dull  eyes  read. 
"Your  employment  has  become  impossible."  The 
letter  fell  to  the  floor;  the  voice  cried:  "The  rats 


274  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

desert  the  sinking  ship!"  It  chuckled:  "Wise 
rats.  Sensible  rats !"  And  then  dead  eyes  saw 
the  man  who  stood  before  him. 

"You?"  They  peered,  like  those  of  a  fish. 
"Good!  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  even  though  you 
have  come  to  scorn,  and  abuse,  and  hate.  It's 
a  lonely  hell,  this — lonely." 

Blake  answered,  bitterness  in  his  soul: 

"I  did  not  come  because  I  wanted  to.  It 
was  to  prevent  her  coming — the  wife  who  loved 
you,  and  who,  God  help  her,  loves  you  still.  She 
would  make  one  last  effort  to  save  you." 

Schuyler  laughed  again. 

"There's  nothing  left  to  save,"  he  chuckled. 

"I  know;  but  I'll  try  for  her  sake." 

Schuyler  lurched  into  a  chair.  In  ghastly 
playfulness  he  looked  upon  the  other. 

"Try,  then,"  he  cackled.  "You  did  so  well 
last  time,  that  you've  come  to  try  again,  eh? 
Well,  you've  come  too  late.  Do  you  remember 
Parmalee — the  boy  who  killed  himself?  The  boy 
that  I  called  a  fool?"  He  laughed,  sardonically. 
"He's  got  me  now — he,  and  Van  Dam,  and  Rogers 
— three  damned  fools  scorching  in  a  hole  in  hell 


THE  THING  THAT  WAS  A  MAN     275 

'A  fool  there  was/  "  he  quoted;  then,  stop- 
ping, suddenly,  he  half  rose,  weakly,  to  his  feet. 

"Listen!"  he  cried. 

There  came  utter  silence. 

"Did  you  hear?"  he  queried,  triumphantly. 
"Did  you  hear  her  calling?" 

It  was  more  than  Blake  could  bear. 

"Jack!"  he  cried,  tensely.     "Jack!" 

Schuyler  rounded  on  him. 

"Don't  call  me  that!"  he  said,  petulantly. 
"Call  me  the  Fool." 

Blake  shook  his  head,  in  the  gripping  hor- 
ror of  it  all. 

"It  makes  me  sick,"  he  murmured,  to  him- 
self, "sick  at  heart !" 

Schuyler  had  heard. 

"It  makes  me  sick,  too,"  he  cackled.  He 
pointed  to  the  shattered  mirror,  above  the  man- 
tel. "Do  you  see  that?"  he  demanded.  "There 
isn't  a  whole  one  in  the  house.  I  don't  dare  to 
look  at  myself." 

Came  to  Blake's  mind  now,  stricken  and 
wracked  as  it  had  been,  by  that  which  he  had  seen, 
a  glimmer  of  hope.  He  had  heard  of  men  like  this 
who  had  come  back  to  life — to  reason.  It  might 


276  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

be  fever — fever  and  drink;  and  it  might  be  that 
the  fever  could  be  stayed — the  drink  conquered. 
John  Schuyler  had  been  a  strong  man.  Surely 
it  could  not  be  that  in  so  short  a  time  he  had  been 
dragged  to  the  grave's  very  edge.  Lack  of  atten- 
tion, lack  of  care,  lack  of  medicine  and  nursing 
and  discipline  were  probably  largely  responsible. 
The  man  might  be  awakened — brought  to  himself. 
It  might  be  possible 

Speculatively,  not  realizing  that  he  spoke 
aloud,  he  asked  of  himself: 

"Is  there  a  chance  left?  Is  there  one  little 
chance  left,  to  save  him?" 

Again  Schuyler  had  heard. 

"What  would  be  the  use?"  he  queried,  dully. 
The  liquor  was  passing.  "What  is  there  left  of  me 
to  save?  I'm  a  husk — squeezed  dry.  I'm  a  mem- 
ory— a  nightmare.  They  are  calling  me — Young 
Parmalee,  Rogers,  Seward  Van  Dam.  I  drink  to 
them,  now,  even  as  they  drink  to  me — scorching 
in  their  hole  in  hell !"  He  rose  weakly  to  his  feet, 
raising  a  dirty  glass  in  which  splashed  a  little  am- 
ber liquor. 

Came  to  Blake  the  thought  that,  even 
though  Schuykr  could  not  be  redeemed  to  man- 


THE  THING  THAT  WAS  A  MAN    277 

hood,  he  might  at  least,  be  saved  from  death,  or 
worse.  He  might  at  least  be  made  again  into  the 
semblance  of  that  which  he  had  been.  He  started 
forward,  hands  gripping  the  edge  of  the  desk,  face 
close  to  Schuyler's  own. 

"Jack!"  he  cried,  commandingly.  "Look 
here!  I  want  to  talk  to  you!" 

Schuyler  slumped  again  into  the  depths  of 
his  chair.  He  looked  up,  dully. 

"Yes?" 

"Listen !"  Blake  demanded.  "Listen  close- 
ly. There's  a  chance  for  you  yet !  We'll  take  you 
away  somewhere — for  a  year — five  years — ten 
years.  You  can  change  your  name — make  a  new 
start — build  yourself  a  new  character — a  new 
honor.  There's  still  happiness  for  you,  Jack ! 
We'll  go  and  find  it !  Come !  Shall  we  ?" 

Schuyler  answered,  dully,  with  the  petu- 
lance of  the  mentally  unfit: 

"It's  too  late,  I  tell  you — too  late !" 

"It's  not  too  late!    You'll  try!     Come!" 

"It's  too  late,  I  say !"  insisted  Schuyler,  thick- 
ly. "She's  torn  from  me  everything  that  makes 
life  worth  living.  She's  taken  honor  and  manhood 
and  self-respect — wife  and  child  and  friends — • 


278  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

everything — everything  but — this!"  He  patted 
the  bare  bottle  before  him.  And  then:  "Let's 
drink,"  he  muttered. 

Blake  sprang  forward,  desperation  over- 
whelming him. 

"My  God,  this  is  awful!"  he  exclaimed. 
"Haven't  you  a  spark  of  manhood  left  ?  no  brains  ? 
no  bowels?  nothing  a  man  can  appeal  to?" 

Schuyler  repeated,  dully: 

"Give  me  that  bottle!" 

It  was  then  that  Blake  came  to  that  which 
he  had  mentally  intended  to  be  a  last  resort.  De- 
liberately, not  in  anger,  but  in  the  desperation  of 
a  strong  man  who  plays  his  last  card  for  his  ulti- 
mate stake,  he  leaned  across  the  table  and  delib- 
erately struck  Schuyler  in  the  face.  It  was  a  hard 
thing  to  do;  but  there  are  things  that  so  demand. 
Blake  knew  that  if  this  time  he  failed  to  arouse 
whatever  of  latent,  atrophied  manhood  there 
might  be  in  the  breast  of  the  other,  that  never 
again,  probably,  would  the  shrivelling  brain  come 
within  call.  So  he  struck;  and,  following  the 
staggering  form,  struck  again,  flat  on  the  face, 
with  open  hand,  hard,  stinging  blows.  And  with 
these  blows  he  cried,  tenselv: 


THE  TH.NG  THAT  WAS  A  MAN     279 

"If  there's  any  spirit  left  in  you,  I'll  arouse 
it.  You  pitiful  thing  that  was  once  a  man !  You 
made  in  God's  image?  Why,  there  isn't  a  swine 
that  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  roll  in  the  same  gut- 
ter with  you !" 

With  stinging  words  and  stinging  blows,  he 
pursued  the  stumbling  figure  across  the  room. 
Schuyler  fell.  Blake  kicked  him,  sending  foot 
against  body,  heavily. 

"Get  up,  you  beast !"  he  ordered.  And  then, 
in  the  horror  of  it  all — in  the  awful  of  horror  of  the 
hurt  of  the  thing  that  he  was  doing :  "Great  God ! 
Will  nothing  awaken  you?" 

Schuyler  was  scrambling  weakly  to  his  feet. 
In  dulled  eyes  there  was  a  little  gleam — the  little 
gleam  that  Blake  had  tried  so  hard,  so  horribly,  to 
bring.  The  slobbering  lip  had  set  a  little  and  the 

loose,  lax  jaw There  was  there  the  shadow 

of  the  John  Schuyler  that  was Blake  stepped 

back,  gladness  in  his  heart. 

He  had  called  him  back  so  far.  He  would 
call  him  back  the  rest! 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SIX. 

AGAIN    THE    BATTLE. 

Schuyler  staggered,  stumbled  to  his  feet, 
thin  hands  clutching  for  support  at  chair  arm. 

"You  struck  me!"  he  mumbled,  savagely. 
"You  struck  me.  You'll  fight  me — fight  me!" 

He  lifted  weakly,  balancing  himself  upon  un- 
steady, weakened  legs.  Blake,  stepping  back, 
found  his  hand  against  a  glass  of  water.  He 
seized  it — advanced  a  step — and  cast  the  contents 
of  the  glass  full  into  Schuyler's  contorting  face 


Schuyler  slowly  came  to  himself.  The 
shock  of  the  blows — of  the  words — and  finally  of 
the  water  agaiost  his  head,  sent  the  blood  to  his 
brain — banished  the  liquor,  and  the  dementia, 
from  it A  weakened,  miserable,  pitiful  imi- 
tation he  was  of  the  John  Schuyler  that  had  been. 
Yet  it  was  John  Schuyler  that  sat  slumped  into 
281 


282  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

the  chair,  gazing  up  at  the  friend  who  had  proven 
his  friendship  so  often  and  so  well. 

Schuyler  sat  for  a  moment,  eyes  blinking. 
At  length  his  hand  went  forth,  slowly. 

"Hello,  Tom,"  he  said.  "I'm  glad  to  see 
you."  Puzzled  eyes  went  about  the  room,  eyes 
expanding,  contracting,  like  those  of  a  man  who, 
having  been  long  asleep,  awakens  to  find  himself 
in  a  place  unfamiliar. 

Blake  went  to  him,  leaning  over  him. 

"You  can  understand  me  now?"  he  asked* 
tensely. 

Schuyler  looked  up. 

"Why,  yes,"  he  replied.  "Of  course,  Tom. 
Of  course  I  can  understand  you."  Eyes  again 
sought  to  solve  the  mystery  of  the  room;  for  from 
the  mind  cleared  had  fled  all  memories  of  the  mind 
uncleared. 

Blake  cried : 

"You  are  coming  away  with  us,  Jack — away 
from  this  hell-snake  of  yours !  You're  coming  to- 
day— now !  Do  you  understand  ?" 

Schuyler  nodded. 

"Yes,"  he   said.     "I   understand."     In  his 


AGAIN  THE  BATTLE  283 

mind  the  real  and  the  unreal  were  clarifying  into 
an  accurate  whole.  He  nodded  again. 

"There's  still  a  chance  for  you,  Jack."  Blake 
continued,  earnestly,  all  his  force  in  his  words. 
"There's  still  a  chance  for  you.  You're  going  to 
be  strong,,  and  become  a  man  again!  Tell  me 
that  you  will!" 

"It's  too  late,  Tom,"  he  replied.  There  was 
in  the  words  sadness,  despair,  hopelessness  unut- 
terable. "It's  too  late.  Body,  mind,  soul  are 
wasted,  gone.  There's  no  chance,  Tom.  It's  too 
late!" 

"No!"  cried  Blake!  "There  is  happiness 
for  you — real  happiness — the  right  happiness! 
Your  wife — your  child " 

"Don't  speak  of  them,"  Schuyler  moaned. 
4  Don't! Don't!" 

"You  must  think  of  them,  Jack.  It's  there 
that  salvation  lies.  Think  of  the  true  woman — 
the  wife  who  loves  you.  Think  of  the  little  one 
who  used  to  put  baby  hands  around  your  neck  and 
try  to  tell  you  all  the  beautiful  things  that  only 
children  know.  That  is  what  will  save  you  now,- 
Jack— and  only  that!  Think Think!" 

"It's  too  late,  Tom!" 


284  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

"It's  not  too  late!" 

"You're  sure?     Quite,  quite  sure?" 

"I'm  sure,  Jack!" 

There  was  a  pause.  Schuyler  rose.  He 
thrust  forth  his  hand.  Blake  took  it,  gripping  it 
in  his  own. 

"I'll  go,  Tom.  I'll  go."  Came  to  him  a 
touch  of  that  from  which  he  had  been  able  to  with- 
draw so  pitifully  little. 

"We'll  fool  her  yet,  won't  we?''  he  asked, 
breathlessly.  "We'll  fool  her,  and  Young  Parma- 
lee,  and  Rogers,  and  Van  Dam  and  the  rest  of 
them.  Let's  go  now,  Tom.  Take  me  away !  For 
the  love  of  God  \vho  has  forsaken  me — whom  I 
have  forsaken — take  me  away!  Save  me  from  her 
— from  myself — My  blood  has  turned  to  water, 
and  my  bones  to  chalk!  My  brain  has  withered! 
Good  God !  What  has  come  over  me !  To  think 
that  I,  who  could  once  look  in  the  eye  all  men,  all 
women,  all  little  children,  should  have  come  to 
this.  Look  at  me!  A  fool  in  his  drunken  Palace11 
of  Folly !  Dust,  dirt,  grime,  filth  all  about  me — in 

my  home — in  my  soul ! I  thought  it  was  too 

late,  Tom.  I  thought  from  the  beginning  it  was  too 
late.  The  shame,  the  disgrace,  the  loss  of  honor — 


AGAIN  THE  BATTLE  285 

of  everything,  were  new  to  me.  I  couldn't  under- 
stand. Then  I  cursed  myself.  I  swore  to  God 
that  I  wouldn't  become  the  thing  I  am.  But  He! 
didn't  help  me;  and  I  couldn't  help  myself.  I 
tried!  Ah,  how  I  tried!  But  there  was  some- 
thing— her  eyes,  it  was — eyes  that  burnt  and 
seared! — I  tried  to  kill  myself,  as  Parmalee  did. 

I  couldn't And  the  only  forgetfulness  lay  in 

drink — drink  that  sapped  my  strength  and  drained 
my  veins  and  shrivelled  my  brain.  Tell  me  it's  a 
dream,  Tom — that  it's  all  but  a  vile,  horrible, 
grewsome  dream !  Tell  me  that  I'm  the  kind  of  a 
man  you  are !  the  kind  of  a  man  I  once  was !  And 
don't  hate  me,  Tom.  Don't  loathe,  and  despise 
me,  all;  but  pity  me  a  little — just  a  little!" 

He  had  sunk  in  a  huddled  heap  to  the  floor, 
weak,  hysterical — a  half-crazed  soul  in  the  white- 
hot  crucible  of  suffering.  Blake  leaned  over  him, 
gently,  and  lifting  him,  helped  him  to  the  great 
'chair.  There  was  a  great,  unselfish  gladness  in. 
his  heart.  But  that  gladness  had  changed  swiftly 
to  horror.  He  stood  back  aghast.  For  there  had 
entered  the  room  Kathryn,  and  Muriel. 

The  horror  of  it  all  did  not  show  in  the  eyes 


286  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

of  the  wife.  She  would  not  let  it.  The  child,  all 
gladness,  ran  to  her  father;  she  did  not  notice. 

"Daddy!    Oh,  daddy!"  she  called. 

Schuyler,  a  huddled  heap  by  the  desk, 
straightened,  weakly. 

"You !"  he  cried,  brokenly.  Tears  welled  to 
his  eyes.  He  seized — the  little  form  in  his  arms, 
clutching  it  to  him. 

Blake  turned  to  Kathryn. 

"You  should  not  have  come,"  he  said.  He 
was  sorry  for  the  hurt  he  knew  she  suffered. 

"My  place  is  here."  She  went  to  Schuyler, 
stooping  over  him. 

"Jack,  dear."    She  spoke,  very  quietly. 

He  lifted  his  eyes,  dim,  moist.  His  lips 
worked. 

"Oh,  daddy !"  exclaimed  the  child.  "You've 
been  ill !  You  look  awful !" 

He  bent  his  head. 

"Yes,  little  sweetheart,"  he  answered,  in 
shaking  tone,  "very  ill.  God  grant  you  may  never 
know  how  ill." 

"But  you're  most  well,  now,  aren't  you 
daddy?"  she  asked,  brightly. 


AGAIN  THE  BATTLE  287 

"I  hope  so,"  he  replied.  "Ah,  how  I  hope 
so."  Lips  and  voice  both  quivered,  now. 

"And  we  can  play  horsie?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,"  he  assented.  He  essayed  to  lift  her; 
but  even  the  tiny  weight  of  the  little  form  was  too 
much  for  his  shattered  strength.  His  head  sunk 
upon  the  table,  arm-buried.  His  body  shook. 

The  child  did  not  see;  which  was  well.  She 
was  looking  at  her  mother. 

"Mother,  dear,"  she  said  reproachfully. 
"You  forgot  to  kiss  daddy." 

"Did  I?    I'm  sorry." 

Willingly  Kathryn  went  to  him.  He  raised 
thin,  white  hand  in  protest. 

"Not  now,"  he  murmured,  brokenly.  "It's 
not  fair — not  right !" 

The  situation  was  hard — hard  for  all — no 
less  hard  for  her  than  for  him — no  less  hard  for 
Blake  than  for  either.  He  stepped  forward,  for- 
cing a  lightness  of  tone  and  of  word  that  lay 
farthest  from  his  thought.  He  laid  his  hand  light- 
ly on  Schuyler's  shoulder. 

"Come,  Jack,"  he  said  crisply.  "It's  quite  all 
right.  There's  no  cause  for  anything  but  glad- 


288  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

ness.  I'll  see  them  to  the  hotel,  and  come  back 
for  you." 

Schuyler  clutched  at  his  strong  fingers. 

"Don't  be  long,  Tom,"  he  begged,  whisper- 
ing. 

"Only  a  moment,"  returned  Blake,  so  low 
that  only  he  might  hear.  Blake  knew  that  he 
needed  time  to  regain  his  self-command.  He  took 
Muriel  by  the  hand.  "Come,  Kate,"  he  suggested. 

Kathryn  shook  her  head. 

"Leave  us  for  a  moment,"  she  urged. 

"Do  you  think  it  best?" 

She  bent  her  head.  Taking  the  child,  Blake 
left  the  room.  And  slowly  Kathryn  again  went 
to  Schuyler's  side. 

"John,  dear,"  she  said,  softly. 

His  head  fell  again  to  his  hands. 

*'I  can  bear  no  more,  Kathryn,"  he  whis- 
pered, weakly.  "Oh,  God,  how  great  is  Thy  good- 
ness! The  shame  of  it  all!  The  shame!  The 

utter,  utter  shame ! And  you,  Kathryn,  can 

forgive !" 

"I  can  forgive,  John,  dear.  I  do  forgive.  It 
was  not  your  fault.  Is  it  the  fault  of  the  bird  that 
he  goes  to  his  death  when  the  eyes  of  the  snake 


'I  DO  FORGIVE-FORGIVE  AND  UNDERSTAND."-/3^  s8q 


AGAIN  THE  BATTLE  289 

are  upon  him?  It  was  not  that  you  were  weak, 
even;  it  was  that — she  was  strong,  strong  in  the 
one  way  in  which  she  leads.  I  do  forgive — forgive 
and  understand." 

"You  are  good  beyond  all  goodness,"  he 
murmured,  voice  low,  vibrant. 

"No,"  she  said.  She  smiled  a  smile  that  was 
no  smile.  And  then :  "It's  been  a  dream,  John — 
a  bitter,  bitter  dream.  But  we  are  awake,  now — 
awake  at  last.  And  we'll  never  dream  again — 
never." 

She  rose.  Violet  eyes  were  moist.  She 
turned  away,  a  little,  that  he  might  not  see.  Her 
voice  was  lighter  as  she  asked: 

"John,  dear.  Don't  you  want  me  to  stay 
and  help  you?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Go,  Kathryn,"  he  requested.  "Go  with 
Tom.  It  will  be  more  merciful  to  both  of  us. 
And  I  want  to  be  alone — to  try  to  realize  that  the 
chance  is  mine  to  redeem  myself.  I  want  to  ask 
God  to  try  to  forgive  me,  and,  in  His  infinite 
mercy,  to  help  me  atone  for  all  the  wrong  I've 
done  you." 

She  bent  her  head.    It  was  bitterly  hard  for 


290  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

her,  as  for  him.  She  knew,  as  he  said,  it  would  be 
more  merciful  to  them  both  that  she  should  go. 
Gently  she  bent.  Her  lips  touched  his  bowed 
head.  Slowly  she  turned.  Slowly  she  walked 
across  the  dirty,  disordered  room.  She  looked 
back,  once.  He  was  still  sitting  there,  head  buried 

deep  in  hands She  was  glad,  glad  unselfishly. 

She  could  give  him  happiness.    Would  there  ever 

be  happiness  for  her  ?     She  was  afraid Yet 

she  was  glad — glad  as  Blake  was  glad— Still  there 
was  in  her  a  great,  great  emptiness. 


CHAPTER  THIRTY-SEVEN. 

THE   PITY    OF    LT   ALL. 

Left  alone,  John  Schuyler  sat  for  long, 
never-ending  moments.  He  was  weak — weak 
unto  the  weakness  of  death.  His  soul  was  torn 
and  tossed  and  twitched  within  him.  At  length  he 
rose,  slowly,  to  his  feet.  A  dizziness — a  nausea — 
overmastered  him.  He  reached  for  the  bottle  on 
the  table  top.  As  he  did  so,  his  foot  touched  some 

object  upon  the  floor He  looked  down.  It 

was  a  bit  of  broken  mirror He  stooped  and 

picked  it  up.  The  light  upon  the  table  was  on. 
He  turned  it  so  that  it  might  illumine  with  its 
merciless  rays  the  last  cruel  line  upon  his  face 

Slowly,  holding  the  mirror  so  that  eyes 

might  see,  he  looked He  fell  to  his  knees 

This  thing  that  he  saw  was  he !  He !  John 

Schuyler ! 

Came  to  him  at  length  strength  to  rise. 
292 


THE  PITY  OF  IT  ALL  293 

Came  to  his  heart  great  resolves.  He  would  make 
atonement  to  the  woman  whom  he  had  forsaken 
— the  woman  who  had  not  forsaken  him.  He 
would  make  atonement  in  as  far  as  it  lay  within 
possibility — and  to  the  child  that  was  of  him  and 
of  her  he  would  make  atonement.  He  was  but  a 
young  man;  many  years  of  life  should  lie  before 
him;  and  of  these  years  he  would  give,  give  all, 
and  ask  nothing.  It  was  the  sad  wreck  of  a  life 
that  lay  before  him — a  stinking,  noisome  wreck — 
yet  there  must  be  something  in  it  that  was  neither 
foul  nor  unsightly.  That  thing  he  would  find.  He 

set  his  jaw.  Leaden  eyes  became  bright 

Then,  he  was  near  to  being  a  man 

He  had  started  toward  the  door,  to  leave 
forever  the  scene  of  his  moral,  mental,  spiritual 
death — he  was  almost  to  the  portal — another  step 
would  carry  him  through,  and  beyond 

She  stood  there.  Red  lips  were  parted  in  a 
little,  inscrutable  smile.  White  shoulders  shim- 
mered. Lithe  muscles  rippled  beneath  her  gown 
with  every  movement  of  her  delicate  body.  She 
was  beautiful — beautiful  as  an  animal  is  beautiful. 
And  her  eyes  were  upon  his. 


294  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

He  staggered  back,  clutching  at  the  door 
jamb  for  support. 

She  laughed  a  little,  lightly: 

"Just  in  time.  You're  going  away.  Bien. 
1  trust  you  may  have  a  very  pleasant  journey." 

She  swung  into  the  room,  lithely,  eyes  upon 
him,  vivid  lips  smiling.  Rounded  arms  were 
clasped  behind  lissome  back. 

"And  if  I  hadn't  gone,"  he  inquired,  "you 
were  about  to  go?" 

She  nodded. 

"To  another  fool?" 

She  shook  her  head,  merrily. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  red  lips  pursed.  "To 
a  man — this  time." 

He  shrunk  a  little.  The  madness  was  not 
far  behind. 

"Well,  squeeze  him  dry,"  he  muttered. 
"Squeeze  the  honor  and  the  manhood  and  the  life 
and  the  soul  out  of  him,  won't  you?  And  then 
Parmalee,  and  Rogers,  and  Van  Dam  will  laugh  at 
him  from  their  hole  in  hell.  And  I'll  laugh  at  all 
of  you;  for  I'll  be  safe  from  you  all.  So  squeeze 
him  dry,  won't  you,  you  Vampire!" 

Again   she   laughed,   gaily.      He   was   very 


THE  PITY  OF  IT  ALL  295 

amusing,  at  times — this  thing  that  had  been  a  man. 
She  slid  to  the  desk,  seating  herself  upon  it,  swing- 
ing small,  perfectly  shod  feet  with  slender  silk-clad 
ankles. 

"So  it's  all  over,"  she  remarked,  musingly. 
"Yet  it  was  sweet  while  it  lasted,  wasn't  it,  My 
Fool? — sometimes."  She  tossed  at  him  con- 
temptuously a  glowing  crimson  blossom  which 
she  ripped  from  the  great  mass  at  her  rounded 
breast.  She  went  on: 

"Those  days  on  the  Mediterranean,  under 
the  blue  skies.  And  Venice,  with  the  dim  silence 
all  about,  and  the  soft  night  breezes  whispering 
their  strange  secrets  to  us  as  we  lay  side  by  side 
under  the  rustling  canopy — very  romantic,  for 
dreamers — and  we  did  dream — didn't  we,  My 
Fool? — at  least,  you  did."  She  laughed  again; 
again  she  cast  at  him  a  crimson  blossom,  ma- 
liciously, tantalizingly.  "And  Paris.  That  was 
good,  too — differently.  The  gay  crowds  on  the 
Bois,  and  the  races  at  Longchamps,  and  the  little 
place  in  the  Rue  Notre  Dame  des  Champs — and 
Saint  Antoine,  in  the  Norman  hills — and  the  fuss 
they  made  over  the  newly-wedded  couple!  It  was 
while  we  were  there,  if  you  will  remember,  Fool,'* 


296  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

she  went  on,  in  voice  caressing  but  words  that 
stung,  "on  the  morning  that  we  first  had  breakfast 
under  the  grape  arbor,  with  its  young  green  leaves 
and  nodding  promises  of  luscious  yield,  that  there 
came  the  letter  from  your  wife." 

She  laughed,  long  and  merrily.  He  cried, 
hoarsely  : 

"Stop!  Damn  you,  stop!  You've  tortured 
me  enough !" 

"Amedee  served  us  that  morning,"  she  con- 
tinued, unmindful;  "or  was  it  Francois? — no, 
Amedee.  He  spilt  the  coffee  upon  the  table  cloth 
twice,  in  his  anxiety  lest  he  embarrass  us.  And 
when  you  kissed  me,"  with  a  little  ripple  of  mirth, 
"he  looked  the  other  way,  covering  his  lips  with 

his  hand.  Oh,  admirable  Amedee! The 

breeze  was  stirring  that  morning,  Fool — do  you 
remember? — and  the  dead  leaves  of  yester-year 
fell  about  us — so!"  She  plucked  a  great  handful 
of  crimson  petals  from  her  breast  and  cast  them 
above  her  head.  They  fell  about  him,  and  about 
her.  "And  I  dipped  sugar  in  my  coffee  and  fed  it 
to  you,  and  you  let  me  read  your  wife's  letter." 
Again  she  laughed. 


THE  PITY  OF  IT  ALL  297 

Through  his  clenched  teeth  came  a  mut- 
tered curse. 

"It  was  interesting,  drolly  interesting 

that  letter,"  she  continued.  "She  couldn't  under- 
stand why  your  mission  detained  you  so  long!" 

Yet  again  she  laughed,  merrily,  ringingly. 
Suddenly  she  shifted,  lithely,  the  poise  of  her  body. 

"Bah !  I  weary  of  this,  and  of  you 

But  before  I  go,"  she  leaned  far  forward,  eyes  on 
his,  vivid  lips  curved,  bare  breast  shimmering,  "a 
kiss,  My  Fool!" 

"Why  do  you  come  here?"  he  cried,  pit- 
eously.  "Have  you  not  done  enough?  Is  there 
no  pity  in  your  heart — no  sympathy — no  human 
feeling  of  any  kind?" 

"I've  heard  you  say  so,  in  other  days,"  she 
smiled. 

"Let  me  go,"  he  begged.  "Haven't  you 
done  enough  ?  There  is  no  misery  that  I  have  not 
suffered — no  degradation  that  I  have  not  reached 
— no  depths  to  which  I  have  not  sunk — no  dis- 
honor that  I  have  not  felt.  Great  God!  What 
more  do  you  want  of  me?" 

He  was  a  pitiful  object,  sunken,  shrivelled, 


298  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

abject.  She  looked  on  him  with  eyes  that  revealed 
only  amusement — amusement,  and  power. 

She  asked,  lightly: 

"What  more  could  I  want  of  you?  What 
more  have  you  to  give,  My  Fool?" 

"There's  a  chance  for  me,"  he  pleaded,  hys- 
terically; "a  little,  pitiful  chance.  Can't  you  find 
in  that  dead  thing  you  call  a  heart  just  one  shred 
of  pity  that  I  may  have  that  chance  that  is  held 
out  to  me  ?  I  don't  ask  much  in  return  for  all  that 

I  have  given — just  to  be  let  alone Ah,  go! 

Go!  Please,  please  go!" 

He  was  on  his  knees  now,  thin  hands  raised 
in  beseeching.  She  looked  down  on  him  from 
where  she  sat,  upon  the  desk,  little  feet  swinging. 
She  raised  delicate,  arched  brows. 

"Anyone  would  think,"  she  declared,  "that 
I  had  done  wrong  by  you." 

He  struggled  erect. 

"By  God,  I'll  have  my  chance !"  he  cried. 
"I'll  have  it  in  spite  of  you!  Do  you  hear?  Go!" 

"In  good  time,  My  Fool,"  she  returned, 
easily.  "When  you  shall  have  ceased  to  amuse 
me." 


'CAN'T  YOU  FIND  IN  1  HAT  DEAD  THING  YOU  CALL  A  HEART 
JUST  ONE  SHRED  OF  PlTYl''-f>afe  gtf 


THE  PITY  OF  IT  ALL  299 

"You'll  go  now,"  he  insisted,  frenziedly. 
"Now!" 

He  stumbled  forward,  to  grasp  the  white, 
rounded  arms.  She  caught  his  wrists,  holding  him 
easily. 

"You're  not  so  strong  as  you  were,  you 
know,"  she  said,  lightly.  Suddenly  she  thrust  him 
from  her,  reeling.  Her  eyes  flashed;  her  lips 
curved,  in  scorn. 

"You  sicken  me."  And  then:  "You  asked 
me  if  I  had  had  all  I  wanted  of  you.  I  have,  and 
more.  And  now  I'll  go,  and  leave  you  to  your 
'chance !'  But  not  until " 

She  had  risen,  and  gone  to  the  great  chair. 

Into  it  she  sank.  He  was  before  her She 

leaned  forward,  eyes  heavy  lidded,  white  arms  ex- 
tended, white  teeth  glowing,  white  shoulders 
shimmering.  She  hissed,  sibilantly: 

"A  kiss,  My  Fool !" 

He  turned  from  her Turned  half  backs 

again 

"No!"  he  gasped,  weakly "No." 

She  hissed  again : 

"Kiss  me,  My  Fool!" 

The  scarlet  roses  at  her  breast  moved  a  lit- 


300  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

tie.  Her  lips  were  parted Her  eyes  were 

on  his 

He  cried,  thickly,  agonizedly: 

"I'm  free  of  you!  Free,  I  tell  you!  I'm 
going  back  to  wife — to  child — to  home — to 
honor!  I'm  free!" 

Her  lips  curved.  Her  breast  heaved.  Her 

arms  glowed.  And  her  eyes  were  on  his 

He  came  a  step  nearer — another  step — yet  an- 
other   He  was  nearer,  now She  leaned 

back  a  little,  in  the  great  chair 

He  was  not  a  man,  now.  He  was  a  Thing, 
and  that  Thing  was  of  her.  Hands  hung  slack, 
loose,  at  his  sides;  jaw  drooped;  lips  were  pendu- 
lous. Only,  in  his  eyes  was  that  light  that  she, 

and  she  alone,  knew  how  to  kindle He  was 

hers,  soul,  and  body,  and  brain 

Then,  suddenly,  came  of  the  things  that  are 
Unknown.  Perhaps  came  to  his  ears  a  voice — to 
his  heart  an  aid  unknown His  hands  stif- 
fened a  little And  then  he  leaped  upon  her. 

She  saw;  she  had  half  risen Back  they 

went  over  the  great  chair,  his  body  on  hers,  his 
fingers  clutching  at  her  rounded  throat.  For  a 
moment,  they  writhed.  She  screamed,  once. 


THE  PITY  OF  IT  ALL  301 

Then,  suddenly,  his  twisted  fingers  relaxed 

His  head  fell  back.  His  body,  inert,  rolled 

from  hers,  turned  again  as  it  struck  the  chair,  and 
fell,  a  thing  crushed  and  .dead,  at  her  feet 

She  rose,  breathing  hoarsely  from  between 
red,  parted  lips.  There  were  marks  upon  her 
throat Perhaps,  again,  she  had  overesti- 
mated her  power And  yet  it  were  not  to  be 

sure  of  this 

Her  skirt-hem  lay  beneath  his  body.  She 
stooped,  lithely,  disengaging  it.  His  fingers 

clutched  torn  petals  of  crimson  roses She 

looked Then  vivid  lips  parted,  and  she 

laughed,  a  little. 

Of  that  which  is  known,  she  knew  but  little; 
of  that  which  is  unknown,  she  knew  much.  Per- 
haps it  is  a  small  thing,  after  all,  to  wreck  a  life. 

*  *  *  *  * 

When  they  came  back,  they  found  him 
there,  alone.  He  lay  prone,  on  the  rug,  before  the 
great  chair.  The  moonlight  was  upon  his  face; 
which  was  not  well.  Crimson  petals,  like  drops 
of  blood,  were  upon  it;  and  the  redness  was 
crushed  between  his  clutching  fingers. 

Muriel  did  not  see;  for  the  friend  such  as 


302  A  FOOL  THERE  WAS 

few  men  may  ever  hope  to  have  and,  having,  may 
pray  to  keep,  had  thrust  the  child  behind  him. 

For  a  long,  long  time  they  stood  there 

Then  slowly,  the  woman  that  had  been  wife 

turned — her  head  sunk  forward She  had  suf- 
fered much,  and  yet  there  was  in  her  still  the 
power  to  suffer;  but  it  was  now  the  suffering  of 
pity — of  utter,  utter  pity Head  sunk  for- 
ward, she  reeled  a  little.  The  man,  standing  be- 
side her,  caught  her  in  strong  arm,  that  she  might 

not  fall For  a  tiny  moment  she  rested  there 

— the  only  rest  that  she  had  known  since  It  had 
come  into  her  life.  And  who  shall  say  that  she 
was  wrong?  or  he? 

Side  by  side  they  stood,  and  gazed  upon 
their  dead.  They  held  the  little  child  that  she 

might  not  see Then  slowly  they  turned,  and 

left And  in  the  end,  perhaps,  came  to  them 

of  God  the  happiness  that  they  deserved  from 
Him.  Perhaps,  even  it  was  a  happiness  refined  of 
the  suffering  through  which  they  both  had  passed; 
for,  to  know  great  happiness  one  must  have 
known  great  sorrow. 

Upon  the  Altar  of  Things  are  made,  oft- 
times,  strange  sacrifices — sacrifices  that  we  cannot 


THE  PITY  OF  IT  ALL  303 

understand,  made  in  a  way  that  we  do  not  compre- 
hend. For  God  has  shown  us,  even  the  wisest  of 
us,  but  little  of  the  world  in  which  we  live. 


THE  END. 


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HIS   HOUR.    By  Elinor  Glyn.    Illustrated. 

A  beautiful  blonde  Englishwoman  visits  Russia,  and  is  vio- 
lently made  love  to  by  a  young  Russian  aristocrat.  A  most  unique 
situation  complicates  the  romance. 

THE    GAMBLERS.      By  Charles  Klein  and  Arthur  Hornblow. 
Illustrated  by  C.  E.  Chambers. 

A  big,  vital  treatment  of  a  present  day  situation  wherein  men 
play  for  big  financial  stakes  and  women  flourish  on  the  profits — or 
repudiate  the  methods. 

CHEERFUL  AMERICANS.    By  Charles  Battell  Loomis.    Illus- 
trated by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn  and  others. 

A  good,  wholesome,  laughable  presentation  of  some  Americans 
at  home  and  abroad,  on  their  vacations,  and  during  their  hours  of 
relaxation. 

THE  WOMAN  OF  THE  WORLI'.    By  Ella  Wheeler  Wilcox. 

Clever,  original  presentations  of  present  day  social  problems 
and  the  best  solutions  of  them.  A  book  every  girl  and  woman 
should  possess. 

THE    LIGHT  THAT  LURES.    By  Percy  Brebner. 
Illustrated.     Handsomely  colored  wrapper. 

A  young  Southerner  who  loved  Lafayette,  goes  to  France  to 
aid  him  during  the  days  of  terror,  and  is  lured  in  a  certain  direction 
by  the  lovely  eyes  of  a  Frenchwoman. 

THE  RAMRODDERS.        By  Holman  Day.      Frontispiece  by 
Harold  Matthews  Brett. 

A  clever,  timely  story  that  will  make  politicians  think  and  will 
make  women  realize  the  part  that  politics  play— even  in  their 
romances. 

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A  CERTAIN    RICH   MAN.    By  William  Allen  White. 

A  vivid,  startling  portrayal  of  one  man's  financial  greed,  i*s« 
aride  spreading  power,  its  action  in  Wall  Street,  and  its  effect  on 
ihe  three  women  most  intimately  in  his  life.  A  splendid,  enter- 
taining American  novel. 

IN   OUR    TOWN.    By  William  Allen  White,    Illustrated  by  F. 
R.  Gruger  and  W.  Glackens. 

Made  up  of  the  observations  of  a  keen  newspaper  editor, 
involving  the  town  millionaire,  the  smart  set,  the  literary  set,  the 
bohemian  set,  and  many  others.  All  humorously  related  and  sure 
to  hold  the  attention. 

NATHAN  BURKE.    By  Mary  S.  Watts. 

The  story  of  an  ambitious,  backwoods  Ohio  boy  who  rose 
to  prominence.  Everyday  humor  of  American  rustic  life  per- 
meates the  book. 

THE  HIGH    HAND.    By  Jacques  Futrelle.    Illustrated  by  Will 
Grefe. 

A  splendid  story  of  the  political  game,  with  a  son  of  the 
soil  on  the  one  side,  and  a  "kid  glove"  politician  on  the  other. 
A  pretty  girl,  interested  in  both  men,  is  the  chief  figure. 

THE  BACKWOODSMEN.  By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts.  Illustrated. 
Realistic  stories  of  men  and  women  living  midst  the  savage 
i>eauty  of  the  wilderness.    Human  nature   at  its  best  and   worst 
is  well  protrayed. 

YELLOWSTONE  NIGHTS.    By  Herbert  Quick. 

A  jolly  company  of  six  artists,  writers  and  other  clever 
tolks  take  a  trip  through  the  National  Park,  and  tell  stories  around 
camp  fire  at  night.  Brilliantly  clever  and  original. 

fHE  PROFESSOR'S  MYSTERY.      By    Wells    Hastings   and 
Brian  Hooker.    Illustrated  by  Hanson  Booth. 

A  young  college  professor,  missing  his  steamer  for  Europe/ 
nas  a  romantic  meeting  with  a  pretty  girl,  escorts  her  home,  and 
is  enveloped  in  a  big  mystery. 

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THE     SECOND     WIFE.    By  Thompson  Buchanan.  Illustrated 
by  W.  W.  Fawcett.    Harrison  Fisher  wrapper  printed  in  fom 
'•colors  and  gold. 

An  intensely  interesting  story  of  a  marital  -  jmplication  in 
a  wealthy  New  Vork  family  involving  the  happiness  of  a 
beautiful  young  girl. 

TESS  OF  THE  STORM  COUNTRY.    By  Grace  Miller  White. 
Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

An  amazingly  vivid  picture  of  low  class  life  in  a  New 
York  college  town,  with  a  heroine  beautiful  and  noble,  who  makes 
a  great  sacrifice  for  love. 

FROM  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  MISSING.    By  Grace  Millet 
White. 
Frontispiece  and  wrapper  in  colors  by  Penrhyn  Stanlaws. 

Another  story  of  "the  storm  country."  Two  beautiful  chil- 
dren are  kidnapped  from  a  wealthy  home  and  appear  many  years 
after  showing  the  effects  of  a  deep,  malicious  scheme  behind 
their  disappearance. 

THE    LIGHTED    MATCH.     By  Charles  Neville  Buck.    Illus- 
trated by  R.  F.  Schabelitz. 

A  lovely  princess  travels  incognito  through  the  States  and 
falls  in  love  with  an  American  man.  There  are  ties  that  bind  her 
to  someone  in  her  own  home,  and  the  great  plot  revoh  es  round 
her  efforts  to  work  her  way  out, 

MAUD    BAXTER.    By  C.    C.    Hotchkiss.    Illustrated  by  Will 
Grefe. 

A  romance  both  daring  and  delightful,  involving  an  Amer- 
ican girl  and  a  young  man  who  had  been  impressed  into  English 
service  during  the  Revolution. 

THE    HIGHWAYMAN.    By  Guy   Rawlence.     Illustrated   by 
Will  Grefe. 

A  French  beauty  of  mysterious  antecedents  wins  the  love 
of  an  Englishman  of  title.  Developments  of  a  startling  charactei 
and  a  clever  untangling  of  affairs  hold  the  reader's  iuterest. 

THE    PURPLE    STOCKINGS.     By  Edward  Salisbury    Field 
Illustrated  in  colors;  marginal  illustrations. 

A  young  New  York  business  man,  his  pretty  sweetheart, 
his  sentimental  stenographer,  and  his  fashionable  sister  are  all 
mixed  up  in  a  misunderstanding  that  surpasses  anything  in  the 
way  of  comedy  in  years.  A  story  with  a  laugh  on  every  page. 

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.THE  SILENT  CALL.    By    Edwin    Milton   Royle.      Illustrated 
with  scenes  from  the  play. 

The  b  TO  of  this  story  is  the  Squaw  Man's  soi.  He  has 
been  taken  t  England,  but  spurns  conventional  life  for  the  sake 
of  the  untamed  West  and  a  girl's  pretty  face. 

JOHN  MARCH.    SOUTHERNER.    By  George  \V.  Cable. 

A  story  of  the  pretty  women  and  spirited  men  of  the  South. 
As  fragrant  in  sentiment  as  a  sprig  of  magnolia,  and  as  fall  of 
mystery  and  racial  troubles  as  any  romance  of  "after  the  war" 
days. 

MR.  JUSTICE  RAFFLES.    By  E.  W.  Hornung. 

This  engaging  rascal  is  found  helping  a  young  cricket  player 
out  of  the  toils  of  a  money  shark.  Novel  in  plot,  thrilling  and 
amusing. 

FORTY  MINUTES  LATE.  By  F  Hopkinson  Smith.  Illustrated 
by  S.  M.  Chase. 

Delightfully  human  stories  of  every  day  happenings;  of  a 
lecturer's  laughable  experience  because  he's  late,  a  young  woman's 
excursion  into  the  stock  market,  etc. 

OLD  LADY  NUMBER  31.    By  Louise  Forsslund. 

A  heart-warming  story  of  American  rural  life,  telling  of  the 
adventures  of  an  old  couple  :.n  an  old  folk's  home,  their  sunny, 
philosophical  acceptance  of  misfortune  and  ultimate  prosperity. 

THE  HUSBAND'S  STORY.    By  David  Graham  Phillips. 

A  story  that  has  given  all  Europe  as  well  as  all  America  much 
food  for  thought.  A  young  couple  begin  life  in  humble  circum- 
stances and  rise  in  worldly  matters  until  the  husband  is  enormously 
rich— the  wife  in  the  most  aristocratic  European  society — but  at  the 
price  of  their  happiness. 

THE  TRAIL  OF  NINETY -EIGHT.      By  Robert  W.  Service. 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia"  ever  written,  and 
one  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  descriptions  of  the  stam- 
pede  of  gold  seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in 
the  narrative  is  strikingly  original. 

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rHE  SIEGE  OF  THE  SEVEN  SUITORS.    By  Meredith  Nicb 
olson.    Illustrated  by  C.  Coles  Phillips  and  Reginald  Birch. 

Seven  suitors  vie  with  each  other  for  the  love  of  a  beautiful 
'  girl,  and  she  subjects  them  to  a  test  that  is  fnll  of  mystery,  magic 
and  sheer  amusement. 

THE  MAGNET.    By  Henry  C.  Rowland.    Illustrated  by  Clarence 
F.  Underwood. 

The  story  of  a  remarkable  courtship  involving  three  pretty 
girls  on  a  yacht,  a  poet-lover  in  pursuit,  and  a  mix-up  in  the  names 
of  the  girls. 

THE  TURN  OF  THE  ROAD.  By  Eugenia  Brooks  Frothingham. 
A  beautiful  young  opera  singer  chooses  professional  success 
instead  of  love,  but  comes  to  a  place  in  life  where  the  call  of  the 
heart  is  stronger  than  worldly  success. 

SCOTTIE  AND  HIS  LADY.     By  Margaret  Morse.    Illustrated 
by  Harold  M.  Brett. 

A  young  girl  whose  affections  have  been  blighted  is  presented 
with  a  Scotch  Coilie  to  divert  her  mind,  and  the  roving  adventures 
of  her  pet  lead  the  young  mistress  into  another  romance. 

SHEILA  VEDDER.    By  Amelia  E.  Barr.    Frontispiece  by  Ham 
son  Fisher. 

A  very  beautiful  romance  of  the  Shetland  Islands,  with  a 
handsome,  strong  willed  hero  and  a  lovely  girl  of  Gaelic  blood  as 
heroire.  A  sequel  to  "Jan  Vedder's  Wife." 

JOHN  WARD.  PREACHER.    By  Margaret  Deland. 

The  first  big  success  of  this  much  loved  American  novelist 
It  is  a  powerful  portrayal  of  a  young  clergyman's  attempt  to  win  hi? 
beautiful  wife  to  his  own  narrow  creed. 

THE   TRAIL  OF   NTNETY-EIGHT.    By  Robert  \V.  Service 
Illustrated  by  Maynard  Dixon. 

One  of  the  best  stories  of  "Vagabondia  • '  ever  written,  anc 
fone  of  the  most  accurate  and  picturesque  of  the  stampede  of  £olc 
seekers  to  the  Yukon.  The  love  story  embedded  in  the  narrative 
is  strikingly  original, 

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REALISTIC.  ENGAGING  PICTURES  OF  LIFT-', 

THE  GARDEN  OF  FATE.  By  Roy  Norton.  Illustrated 

by  Joseph  Clement  Coll. 

The  colorful  romance  of  an  American  girl  in  Morocco,  and 
Of  a  beautiful  garden,  whose  beauty  and  traditions  of  strange 
subtle  happenings  were  closed  to  the  world  by  a  Sultan's  seal. 

THE  MAN  HIGHER  UP.    By  Henry  "Russell  Miller. 

Full  page  vignette  illustrations  by  M  Leone  Bracket. 

f  he  story  of  a  tenement  waif  who  rose  by  his  own  ingenuity 

<o  the  office  of  mayor  of  his  native  city.     His  experiences 

*?hile  "climbing,"  make  a  most  interesting  example  of  the 

possibilities  of  humat.  nature  to  rise  above  circumstances. 

THE  KEY  TO  YESTERDAY.      By  Charles  Neville 

Buck.     Illustrated  by  R.  Schabelitz. 

Robert  Saxon,  a  prominent  artist,  has  an  accident,  while  in 

Paris,  which  obliterates  his  memory,  and  the  only  clue  he  has 

•;o  his  former  life  is  a  rusty  key.    What  door  in  Paris  will  it 

unlock  ?    He  must  know  that  before  he  woos  the  girl  he  loves, 

THE  DANGER  TRAIL.     By  James  Oliver  Curwood 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 
The  danger  trail  is  over  the  snow-smothered  North.     A 
young  Chicago  engineer,  who  is  building  a  road  through  the 
Hudson  Bay  region,  is  involved  in  mystery,  and  is  led  into 
ambush  by  a  young  woman. 

THE  GAY  LORD  WARING.    By  Houghton  Townley 

Illustrated  by  Will  Grefe. 

A  story  of  the  smart  hunting  set  in  England.  A  gay  young 
lord  wins  in  love  against  his  selfish  and  cowardly  brother  and 
Apparently  against  fate  itself. 

BY  INHERITANCE.    By  Octave  Thanet.    Illustrated 

by  Thomas  Fogarty.    Elaborate  wrapper  in  colors. 

A  wealthy  New  England  spinster  with  the  most  elaborate 

plans  for  the  education  of  the  negro  goes  to  visit  her  nephew 

in  Arkansas,  where  she  learns  the  needs  of  the  colored  race 

first  hand  and  begins  to  lose  her  theories. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YOR* 


GROSSET  &    DUNLAP'S 
DRAMATIZED  NOVELS 

Original,  sincere  and  courageous — often  amusing — the 
kind  that  are  making  theatrical  history. 

MADAME  X.     By  Alexandre  Bisson  and  J.  W.  McCon- 
aughy.      Illustrated    with    scenes    from    the    play. 
A  beautiful  Parisienne  became  an  outcast  because  her  hus- 
band would  not  forgive  an  error  of  her  youth.     Her  love  for 
her  son  is  the  great  final  influence  in  her  career.    A  tremen- 
dous dramatic  success. 

THE  GARDEN  OF  ALLAH.     By  Robert  Hichens. 

An  unconventional  English  woman  and  an  inscrutable 
stranger  meet  and  love  in  an  oasis  of  the  Sahara.  Staged 
this  season  with  magnificent  cast  and  gorgeous  properties. 

THE  PRINCE  OF  INDIA.    By  Lew.  Wallace. 

A  glowing  romance  of  the  Byzantine  Empire,  presenting 
with  extraordinary  power  the  siege  of  Constantinople,  ana 
lighting  its  tragedy  with  the  warm  underglow  of  an  Oriental 
romance.  As  a  play  it  is  a  great  dramatic  spectacle. 

TESS  OF   THE    STORM    COUNTRY.      By  Grace 
Miller  White.     Illust.  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 
A  girl  from  the  dregs  of  society,  loves  a  young  Cornell  Uni- 
versity student,  and  it  works  startling  changes  in  her  life  and 
the  lives  of  those  about  her.    The  dramatic  version  is  one  of 
the  sensations  of  the  season. 

YOUNG    WALLINGFORD.     By  George    Randolph 

Chester.     Illust.  by  F.  R.  Gruger  and  Henry  Raleigh. 

A  series  of  clever  swindles  conducted  by  a  cheerful  young 

rtian,  each  of  which  is  just  on  the  safe  side  of  a  State's  prison 

offence.    As  "Get-Rich-Quick  Wallingford,"  it  is  probably 

the  most  amusing  expose  of  money  manipulation  ever  seen 

on  the  stage.  t 

THE  INTRUSION   OF  JIMMY.    By  P.  G.  Wode 

house.     Illustrations  by  Will  Grefe. 
Social  and  club  life  in  London  and  New  York,  an  amateur 
burglary  adventure  and  a  love  story.    Dramatized  under  the 
title  of  "A  Gentleman  of   Leisure,"  it  furnishes  hours  of 
laughter  to  the  play-goers. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  Ntw  YORK 


FAMOUS  COPYRIGHT  BOOKS 
IN   POPULAR    PRICED    EDITIONS 

Re-issues  of  the  great  literary  successes  of  the  time.  Library 
size.  Printed  on  excellent  paper — most  of  them  with  illustra- 
tions of  marked  beauty — and  handsomely  bound  in  cloth. 
Price,  75  cents  a  volume,  postpaid. 

BARREL  OF  THE  BLESSED  ISLES.       By  Irving  Bach- 

eller.    With  illustrations  by  Arthur  Keller. 
"Barrel,  the  clock  tinker,  is  a  wit,  philosopher,  and  man  of  mystery. 
Learned,  strong,  kindly,  dignified,  he  towers  like  a  giant  above  the 
people  among  -whom  he  lives.      It  is  another  tale  of  the  North  Coun- 
try, full  of  the  odor  of  wood  and  field.     Wit,  humor,  pathos  and  high 
thinking  are  in  this  book." — Boston  Transcript. 
D'RI  AND  I :    A  Tale  of  Daring  Deeds  in  the  Second  War 
with  the  British.    Being  the  Memoirs  of  Colonel  Ramon 
Bell,  U.  S.  A.    By  Irving  Bacheller.    With  illustrations  by 
F.  C.  Yohn. 

"  Mr.  Bacheller  is  admirable  alike  in  his  scenes  of  peace  and  war. 
D'ri,  a  mighty  hunter,  has  the  same  dry  humor  as  Uncle  Eb.  He 
fights  magnificently  on  the  '  Lawrence,'  and  was  among  the  wounded 
when  Perry  went  to  the  '  Niagara.'  As  a  romance  of  early  American 
history  it  is  great  for  the  enthusiasm  it  creates." — New  York  Times. 
EBEN  HOLDEN :  A  Tale  of  the  North  Country.  By  Irving 

Bacheller. 

"  As  pure  as  water  and  as  good  as  bread,"  says  Mr.  Howells.  "Read 
'  Eben  Holden  ' "  is  the  advice  of  Margaret  Sangster.  "  It  is  a  forest- 
scented,  fresh-aired,  bracing  and  wholly  American  story  of  country 
and  town  life.  *  *  *  If  in  the  far  future  our  successors  wish  to 
know  what  were  the  real  life  and  atmosphere  in  which  the  country 
folk  that  saved  this  nation  grew,  loved,  wrought  and  had  their  being, 
they  must  go  back  to  such  true  and  zestful  and  poetic  tales  of  'fiction' 
as  '  Eben  Holden,'  "  says  Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 
SILAS  STRONG:  Emperor  of  the  Woods.  By  Irving  Bach- 
eller. With  a  frontispiece. 

"A  modern  Leather-stocking.    Brings  the  city  dweller  the  aroma  of 
the  pine  and  the  music  of  the  wind  in  its  branches— an  epic  poem 
*    *    *    forest-scented,  fresh-aired,  and  wholly  American.  A  stronger 
character  than  Eben  Hclden.' ' — Chicago  Record-Herald. 
VERGILIUS:    A  Tale  of  the  Coming  of  Christ    By  Irving 

Bacheller. 

A  thrilling  and  beautiful  story  of  two  young  Roman  patricians  whose 
great  and  perilous  love  in  the  reign  of  Augustus  leads  them  through 
the  momentous,  exciting  events  that  marked  the  year  just  preceding 
the  birth  of  Christ. 

Splendid  character  studies  of  the  Emperor  Augustus,  of  Herod  and 
his  degenerate  son,  Antipater,  and  of  his  daughter  "the  incomparable" 
Salome.  A  great  triumph  in  the  art  of  historical  portrait  painting. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  -  NEW  YORK 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP'S 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

BRUVVER  JIM'S  BABY.     By  Philip  Verrill  Mighels. 

An  uproariously  funny  story  of  a  tiny  mining  settlement  in  the 
West,  which  is  shaken  to  the  very  roots  by  the  suddenpossession 
of  a  baby,  found  on  the  plains  by  one  of  its  residents.  The  town  is 
as  disreputable  a  spot  as  the  gold  fever  was  ever  responsible  for, 
and  the  coming  of  that  baby  causes  the  upheaval  of  every  rooted 
tradition  of  the  place.  Its  christening,  the  problems  of  its  toys  and 
its  illness  supersede  in  the  minds  of  the  miners  all  thought  of  earthy 
treasure. 

THE  FURNACE  OF  GOLD.  By  Philip  Verrill  Mighels, 
author  of  "Bruvver  Jim's  Baby."  Illustrations  by  J.  1SI. 
Marchand. 

An  accurate  and  informing  portrayal  of  scenes,  types,  and  con^i- 
tions  of  the  mining  districts  in  modern  Nevada. 

The  book  is  an  out-door  story,  clean,  exciting,  exemplifying  no- 
bility and  courage  of  character,  a'nd  bravery,  and  heroism  in  the  sort 
of  men  and  women  we  all  admire  and  wish  to  know. 
THE  MESSAGE.     By  Louis  Tracy.  Illustrations  by  Joseph 
C.  Chase. 

Abreezy_tale ^of  how  a  bit  of  old  parchment,  concealed  in  a  figure- 

which  the  reader  will  follow  with  breathless  interest. 
THE  SCARLET  EMPIRE.    By  David  M.  Parry.     Illus- 
trations  by  Hermann  C.  Wall. 

A  y:,ung  socialist,  weary  of  life,  plunges  into  the  sea  and  awakes 
in  the 'ost  island  of  Atlantis,  known  as  the  Scarlet  Empire,  where 
a  social  democracy  is  in  full  operation,  granting  every  man  a  living 
but  limiting  food,  conversation,  education  and  marriage. 

The  hero  passes  through  an  enthralling  love  affair  and  other  ad- 
ventures  but  finally  returns  to  his  own  New  York  world. 
THE  THIRD  DEGREE.    By  Charles  Klein  and  Arthur 
Hornblow.     Illustrations  by  Clarence  Rowe. 

A  novel  which  exposes  the  abuses  in  this  country  of  the  police 
system. 

The  son  of  an  aristocratic  New  York  family  marries  a  woman 
socially  beneath  him,  but  of  strong,  womanly  qualities  that,  later 
on,  save  the  man  from  the  tragic  consequences  of  a  dissipated  life 

The  wife  believes  in  his  innocence  and  her  wit  and  good  sens*. 
help  her  to  win  against  the  tremendous  odds  imposed  by  law. 
THE  THIRTEENTH    DISTRICT.    By  Brand  Whitlock. 

A  realistic  western  story  of  love  and  politics  and  a  searching  study 
r>f  their  influence  on  character.  The  author  shows  with  extraordi- 
:  ary  vitality  of  treatment  the  tricks,  the  heat,  the  passion,  tH<»  tu- 
k.mlt  of  the  political  arena  the  triumph  and  strength  of  love. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


head  from  a  sunken  vessel,  comes  into  the  possession  of  a  pretty 
girl  and  an  army  man  during  regatta  week  in  the  Isle  of  Wight, 
""his  is  the  message  and  it  enfolds  a  mystery,  the  development  of 


A  FEW  OF 

GROSSET  &   DUNLAP'f 
Great  Books  at  Little  Prices 

HAPPY  HAWKINS.    By  Robert  Alexander  Wason.   Illus 
trated  by  Howard  Giles. 

A  ranch  and  cowboy  novel.    Happy  Hawkins  tells  his  own  ston 
with  such  a  tine  capacity  for  knowing  how  to  do  it  and  with  so  muck 
humor  that  the  reader's  interest  is  held  in  surprise,  then  admiratior  I. 
&nd  at  last  in  positive  affection. 

COMRADES.    By  Thomas  Dixon,  Jr.    Illustrated  by  C.  D 
Williams. 

The  locale  of  this  story  is  in  California,  where  a  few  socialists 
establish  a  little  community. 

The  author  leads  the  little  band  along  the  path  of  disillusion 
raent,  and  gives  some  brilliant  flashes  of  light  on  one  side  of  ar 
important  question. 
TONO-BUNGAY.    By  Herbert  George  Wells. 

The  here  of  this  novel  is  a  young  man  who,  through  hard  work, 
earns  a  scholarship  and  goes  to  London. 

Written  with  a  frankness  verging  on  Rousseau's,  Mr.  Wells  stil 
oses  rare  discrimination  and  the  border  line  of  propriety  is  nevei 
crossed.    An  entertaining  book  with  both  a  story  and  a  moral,  and 
without  a  dull  page — Mr.  Wells's  most  notable  achievement 
A  HUSBAND  BY  PROXY.    By  Jack  Steele. 

A  young  criminologist,  but  recently  arrived  in  New  York  city 
is  drawn  into  a  mystery,  partly  through  financial  need  and  partly 
hrough  his  interest  in  a  beautiful  woman,  who  seems  at  times  the 
Simplest  child  and  again  a  perfect  mistress  of  intrigue.  A  baffling 
detective  story. 

LIKE  ANOTHER  HELEN.    By  George   Horton.    Illus, 
trated  by  C.  M.  Relyea. 

Mr.  Horton  s  powerful  romance  stands  in  a  new  field  and  brings 
an  almost  unknown  world  in  reality  before  the  reader — the  world 
«f  conflict  between  Greek  and  Turk  on  the  Island  of  Crete.  The 
"  Helen  "  of  the  story  is  a  Greek,  beautiful,  desolate,  defiant — pure 
as  snow. 

There  is  a  certain  new  force  about  the  story,  a  kind  of  master- 
craftsmanship  and  mental  dominance  that  holds  the  reader. 
THE    MASTER    OF    APPLEBY.     By    Francis    Lynde. 
Illustrated  by  T.  de  Thulstrup. 

"A  novel  tale  concerning  itself  in  part  with  the  great  straggle  i» 
(Ihe  two  Carolinas,  but  chiefly  with  the  adventures  therein  of  two 
gentlemen  who  loved  one  and  the  same  lady. 

A  strong,  masculine  and  persuasive  story. 
A  MODERN  MADONNA.    By  Caroline  Abbot  Stanley. 

A  story  of  American  life,  founded  on  facts  as  they  existed  somt 
rears  ago  in  the  District  of  Columbia.  The  theme  is  the  matema. 
love  and  splendid  courage  of  a  woman. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST..,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

GEORGE  BARR  McCUTCHEON 

GRAUSTARK. 

A  story  of  love  behind  a  throne,  telling  how  *  young 
American  met  a  lovely  girl  and  followed  her  to  a  new  and 
strange  country.    A  thrilling,  dashing  narrative. 
BEVERLY  OF  GRAUSTARK. 

Beverly  is  a  bewitching  American  girl  who  has  gone  to 
that  stirring  little  principality — Graustark — to  visit  her  friend 
the  princess,  and  there  has  a  romantic  affair  of  her  own. 
BREWSTER'S  MILLIONS. 

A  young  man  is  required  to  spend  one  million  dollars  in 
one  year  in  order  to  inherit  seven.    How  he  does  it  forms  the 
basis  of  a  lively  story. 
CASTLE  CRANEYCROW. 

The  story  revolves  round  the  abduction  of  a  young  Amer- 
ican woman,  her  imprisonment  in  an  old  castle  ana  the  adven- 
tures created  through  her  rescue. 
COWARDICE  COURT. 

An  amusing  social  feud  in  the  Adirondack*  in  which  an 
English  girl  is  tempted  into  being  a  traitor  uy  a  romantic 
young  American,  forms  the  plot. 
THE  DAUGHTER  OF  ANDERSON  CROW. 

The  story  centers  about  the  adopted  daughter  of  the  towt 
mnrshal  in  a  western  village.    Her  parentage  is  shrouded  \\ 
mystery,  and  the  story  concerns  the  secret  that  deviously 
works  to  the  surface. 
THE  MAN  FROM  BRODNEY'S. 

The  hero  meets  a  princess  in  a  far-away  island  among 
fanatically  hostile  Musselmen.    Romantic  love  making  amid 
amusing  situations  and  exciting  adventures. 
NEDRA. 

A  young  couple  elope  from  Chicage  to  go  to   London 
traveling  as  brother  and  sister.    They  are  shipwrecked  and  a 
strange  mix-up  occurs  on  account  of  it. 
THE  SHERRODS. 

The  scene  is  the  Middle  West  and  centers  around  a  man 
who  leads  a  double  life.    A  most  enthralling  novel. 
TRUXTON  KING. 

A  handsome  good  natured  young  fellow  ranges  on  ttw 
earth  looking  for  romantic  adventures  and  is  finally  enmesbeft 
in  most  complicated  intrigues  in  Graustark. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

WINSTON  CHURCHILL 

Skillful  in  plot,    dramatic  in    episode,    powerful  and  original  in  climax. 

MR.  CREWE'S  CAREER.  Illus.  by  A.I.  Keller  and  Kinneys. 
A  New  England  state  is  under  the  political  domination 
of  a  railway  and  Mr.  Crewe,  a  millionaire,  seizes  the  moment 
when  the  cause  of  the  people  against  corporation  greed  is  t 
being  espoused  by  an  ardent  young  attorney,  to  further  his 


own  interest  in  a  political  way,  by  taking  up  this  cause. 

The  daughter  of  the  railway  president,  with  the   sunny 
humor  and  shrewd  common  sense  of  the   New   England  girl, 


plays  no  small  part  in  the  situation  as  well  as  in  the  life  of  the 
young  attorney  who  stands  so  unflinchingly  for  clean  politics 
THE  CROSSING.  Illus.  by  S.  Adamson  and  L.  Baylis. 

Describing  the  battle  of  Fort  Moultrie  and  the  British 
fleet  in  the  harbor  of  Charleston,  the  blazing  of  the  Kentucky 
wilderness,  the  expedition  of  Clark  and  his  handful  of  daunt- 
less followers  in  Illinois,  the  beginning  of  civilization  along 
the  Ohio  and  Mississippi,  and  the  treasonable  schemes  builded 
against  Washington  and  the  Federal  Government. 
CONISTON.  Illustrated  by  Florence  Scovel  Shinn. 

A  deft  blending  ef  love  and  politics  distinguishes  this 
hook.  The  author  has  taken  for  his  hero  a  New  Englandei, 
a  crude  man  of  the  tannery,  who  rose  to  political  prominence 
by  his  own  powers,  and  then  surrendered  all  for  the  love  of  a 
woman. 

It  is  a  sermon  on  civic  righteousness,  and  a  love  story  of  a 
deep  motive. 
THE  CELEBRITY.    An  Episode. 

An  inimitable  bit  of  comedy  describing  an  interchai  ge  of 
personalities  between  a  celebrated  author  and  a  bicycle  sales- 
man of  the  most  blatant  type.  The  story  is  adornef  with 
some  character  sketches  more  living  than  pen  work.  I*  is  the 
^purest,  keenest  fun — no  such  piece  of  humor  has  appear  :d  for 
years :  it  is  American  to  the  core. 
THE  CRISIS.  Illus.  by  Howard  Chandler  Christy. 

A  book  that  presents  the  great  crisis  in  our  national  life 


figui 

tirety  for  they  give  a  picture  of  that  great,  magnetic,  iovabie 
man,  which  has  been  drawn  with  evident  affection  and  excep- 
tional success. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26™  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


A  bit  of  parchment  found  in  the  figurehead  of  an  old  ves- 
sel tells  of  a  buried  treasure.    A  thrilling  mystery  develops. 


LOUIS  TRACY'S 

CAPTIVATING  AND  EXHILARATING  ROMANCES 

May  be  had  wherever  books  are  sold.       Ask  for  Grosset  &  Dunlap's  list 

JCYNTHIA'S      CHAUFFEUR.  Illustrated  by  Howard  Chandler 
Christy. 

A  pretty  American  girl  in  London  is  touring  in  a  car  with 
a  chauffeur  whose  identity  puzzles  her.  An  amusing  mystery. 

THE    STOWAWAY    GIRL.      Illustrated  by  Nesbitt  Benson. 

A  shipwreck,  a  lovely  girl  stowaway,  a  rascally  captain,  a 
fascinating  officer,  and  thrilling  adventures  in  South  Seas. 

THE  CAPTAIN  OF  THE  KANSAS. 

Love  and  the  salt  sea,  a  helpless  ship  whirled  into  the  hands 
of  cannibals,  desperate  fighting  and  a  tender  romance. 

THE     MESSAGE.    Illustrated  by  Joseph  Cummings  Chase. 

A  bit  of  parchment  foui 
sel  tells  of  a  buried  treasure. 

THE  PILLAR  OF  LIGHT. 

The  pillar  thus  designated  was  a  lighthouse,  and  the  author 
tells  with  exciting  detail  the  terrible  dilemma  of  its  cut-off  in- 
habitants. 

THE    WHEEL    O'FORTUNE.      With   illustrations   by  James 
Montgomery  Flagg. 

The  story  deals  with  the  finding  of  z.  papyrus  containing 
the  particulars  of  some  of  the  treasures  of  the  Queen  of  Sheba. 

A    SON  OF    THE   IMMORTALS.      Illustrated     by    Howard 
Chandler  Christy. 

A  young  American  is    proclaimed    king   of  a  little   Balkan 
Kingdom,  and  a  pretty  Parisian  art  student  is  the  power  behind 
the  throne. 
THE    WINGS    OF  THE  MORNING. 

A  sort  of  Robinson  Crusoe  redivivus  with  modern  settings 
and  a  very  pretty  love  story  added.  The  hero  and  heroine,  are 
the  only  survivors  of  a  wreck,  and  have  many  thrilling  adventures 
on  their  desert  island. 

Asi  for  compete  free  list  of  G.  &  D.  Popular  Copyrighted  Fiction 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


THE  NOVELS  OF 

STEWART    EDWARD  WHITE 


THE  RULES  OF  THE  GAME.  Illustrated  by  Lajaren  A.  Hiller 
The  romance  of  the  son  of  "The  Riverman."  The  young  college 
hero  goes  into  the  lumber  camp,  is  antagonized  by  "graft"  and  comes 
into  the  romance  of  his  life. 
ARIZONA  NIGHTS.  Illus.  and  cover  inlay  by  N.  C.  Wyeth. 

A  series  of  spirited  tales  emphasizing  some  phases  of  the  life 
of  the  ranch,  plain?  and  desert.    A  masterpiece. 
THE  BLAZED   TRAIL.  With  illustiations  by  Thomas  Fogarty 

A  wholesome  story  with  gleams  of  humor,  telling  of  a  young 
man  who  blazed  his  way  to  fortune  through  the  heart  of  the  Mich- 
igan pines. 
THE  CLAIM  JUMPERS.    A  Romance. 

The  tenderfoot  manager  of  a  mine  in  a  lonesome  gulch  of  the 
Black  Hills  has  a  hard  time  of  it,  but  "wins  out"  in  more  ways  than 
one. 
CONJUROR'S     HOUSE.    Illustrated  Theatrical  Edition. 

Dramatized  under   the     title   of  "The    Call  of    the    North." 

"Conjuror's  House  is  a  Hudson  Bay  trading  post  where  the 
head  factor  is  the  absolute  lord.    A  young  fellow  risked  his  life  and 
won  a  bride  on  this  forbidden  land. 
THE  MAGIC  FOREST.    A  Modern  Fairy  Tale.    Illustrated. 

The  sympathetic  way  in  which  the  children  of  the  wild  and 
their  life  is  treated  could  only  belong  to  one  who  is  in  love  with  the 
forest  and  open  air.    Based  on  fact 
THE  RIVERMAN.    Illus.  by  N.  C.  Wyeth  and  C.  Underwood. 

The  story  of  a  man's  fight  against  a  river  and  of  a  struggle 
between  honesty  and  grit  on  the  one  side,  and  dishonesty   ai.d 
shrewdness  on  the  other. 
THE  SILENT   PLACES.  Illustrations  by  Philip  R.  Goodwin. 

The  wonders  of  the  northern  forests,  the  heights  of  feminine 
devotion,  and  masculine  power,  the  intelligence  of  the   Caucasian 
and  the  instinct  of  the  Indian,  are  all  finely  drawn  in  this  story. 
THE  WESTERNERS. 

A  story  of  the  Black  Hills  that  is  justly  placed  among  the 
best  American  novels.  It  portrays  the  life  of  the  new  West  as  no 
other  book  has  done  in  recent  vears. 

THE     MYSTERY.  In  collaboration  with  Samuel  Hopkins  Adams 
With  illustrations  by  Will  Crawford. 

The  disappearance  of  three  successive  crews  from  the  stout 
ship  "Laughing  Lass"  in  mid- Pacific,  is  a  mystery  weird  and  inscrut- 
able. In  the  solution,  there  is  a  story  of  the  most  exciting  voyage 
that  man  ever  undertook. 

GROSSET  &  DUNLAP,  526  WEST  26th  ST.,  NEW  YORK 


University  of  California 

SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 

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REC'D  LD-URC 

OCT071988 
QL    JAN  17 

D' 

OCT  1  0  2005 


A    000034897     9 


